


Hvitserk Imagines

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 48
Words: 36,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: All my things from my beloved prince.





	1. Chapter 1

Blood dribbles out from a meaty, blood kissed gash on your side. It was trouble enough without with the pressure almost mimicking a vacuum sensation in its attempt to seal your wound. Your brain pulses with every dragging motion of your foot across unfamiliar English land. Unluckily for you, you were be settled with Hvitserk’s portion of the army that all but was wiped out.

“Come here (Y/N).” Hvitserk says, having caught the spillage of blood over your dirty fingertips.

“Oh fuck off, I don’t need your help. This is your fault.” You grumble past him, your red and black shield tipping you in the direction that you held it in.

“How is this my fault? Ivar–” He starts to lean in your direction.

“Did more than you.” You snark back at him. Drunken steps take you in the other direction towards the midline of the road. Your shield thrust into the plentiful earth, abruptly breathing heavily in and out. The road ahead of you stretched into the dark skies.

His shoulders tightens and he trudges forth, bending down at the knees to scoop you up into his arms. Instantaneously, you reach to shove him by his chin. Your bloodied hands scratch at his slight mustache, kicking out in his arms.

“Put… put me down! Are you insane? Do you want to fight?” You snarl out. Hvitserk’s head leans away from the way of your flying fists out towards him.

“(Y/N)! Stay still.” He grunts. “You’ll bleed out and never reach Valhalla.”

Your hand abruptly stops on his adam’s apple, squinting your eyes tight at the older of the two Ragnarssons you knew. “I hate you.”

“I know.” He stops, looking down into your eyes. “And the gods have made me love you.”


	2. Mermaid Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk once had an admirer as a child.

The brothers agreed to meet on the sandy side of the beach that night. While Sigurd strummed his Oud, Ivar laid on the other side of you with his arms behind the back of his neck. The other two had gone off somewhere, and more importantly, the love of your life was clustered around the hearth of an open flame with his older brother Ubbe. Past the roaring hot flames, you could barely make out the sight of furs gathered about his neck.

“Why does he stay there?” You roll onto your belly.

Ivar cracks open his slanted eyes. “For the sex, mermaid.” He motions.

You roll once, twice and then three times with a flick of your massive wet tail dripping onto your back. Your moist scales are iridescent, reflecting shades of cerulean to a a lighter pastel blue that bled into silver. The slight natural occurring gem formations glimmer with the fire bouncing off its surface. Typically, it was enough to garner Hvitserk’s attention. This time however, he barely glanced your way. Both brothers were enraptured with the buttery blonde on Ubbe’s lap.

“Who is she?” You pout. Sigurd strums lazily when you roll back towards Ivar and Sigurd, salty grains embedded in the few tightly woven braids in your loose hair. Sigurd places his Oud to the side, walking with a pail to the water where he would scoop it out. He tosses the contents of the pail your way to moisten your drying scales. Your translucent frills flutter along the underside of your round hips.

“Margrethe.” He says, dropping his pail to the side.

You bare your canines at Sigurd. “So why is she around him?” You ask with a bob of your head. Ivar leans over to press his index finger into your slight crown of pearl and blue gems, tipping you back over onto your side. Your hands would fold over your exposed breasts and into a pout.

“Well, he doesn’t dare have sex with a mermaid, does he?” Ivar says.

You frown deeply. “He could.” You say.

It makes your heart constrict every time Hvitserk leans all so slightly against her, flashing her one of his bright lipped smiles. One of the ones that always, always made you turn cold to him when anyone gazed into his eyes. Your heart soars back to that smile, gleaming right back to the day you met the Ragnarssons.

_No one was saying anything. Not the cluster of Kattegat’s citizens, not the large blonde man that dragged you ashore. Bjorn hacked through strands of a tightly knit net, slicing your tail free. You looked between all the oldest of brothers to a pair of glimmering eyes underneath his blonde bangs._

_“Are you really a mermaid?” He asks with glimmer bright eyes. He was amazed! And in a way, so were you._

Ivar’s eyes slide closed. “You know, he used to look at you like that.”

_Back when you both first met._


	3. Too Close!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe is too closer to his woman.

“Pull it back.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that. Tighten up a little.”

Logically, he knew that his brother meant well when he offered to teach his bright, bubbly wife how to shoot a recurve. But his mind had other sentiments. Ubbe was too close. His hands cup over hers as you drew the string back, your back in line with his torso. Perfect posture with his brothers help but all Hvitserk could focus on was the way the curve of your ass bumped back against Ubbe when the both of you released the string.

The arrow whizzed through the air and with it, Hvitserk’s fading patience.

“I did it!” You squeal with your arms thrusting around his broad neck. Instantaneously Hvitserk flung up from his place of cleaning a small animal and with storming steps, pulled the back of the strings of your dress to drag you back to him. The force of his pull set you off balance, braced by his firm chest.

“I think that is enough for today, brother.”

“I can’t tell if you’re jealous or angry at me.” Ubbe leans back away from your body.

The words didn’t register past the lips crashing over your mouth. The shock of his obvious territorial display took you over– and you pushed his face away.

“Hvitserk! Gods, I can’t deal with you sober.” You cough while catching your breath. Hvitserk’s hand braces you against him despite your hands flapping to bop him in the chest over and over. And over, and over.


	4. Drunk Daddie (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's pretty happy... and he's pretty drunk.

Dragging Hvitserk back home piss drunk was never one of your favourite things to do. Every few steps, he could get side tracked. Look at the stars, (Y/N)! You’re so beautiful (Y/N)! No one will catch us (Y/N). It could easily take an hour to get over the hardwood doorway of your home.

You breached the doorway with Hvitserk hanging off of your body, nibbling small love kisses across your shoulders. At a sharp bite, you flicked his jaw to detach him.

“Hvitserk, what is it with you today?” You ask while he kicks the door shut behind him. He sways a bit. With staggering steps he kicks the door closed with a little, no a lot, of effort.

“I keep hearing these rumors that you’re knocked up. Imagine that.” He tickles his fingers over your curves with a lighthearted laugh. You drop back onto the sea of furs on your bed. Hvitserk comes with you a little less carefully than you hoped for.

“They’re not rumors.” Your hands press against Hvitserk to push his body off your stomach.

His eyebrows knit together tightly and his lower lip puffs out into an obvious pout. A moment passes. “Quit playing with me (Y/N). You can’t be pregnant…” Hvitserk murmurs, propping himself up to hover over your body. His eyes glaze over your body. Still beautiful, but no obvious signs of pregnancy. You didn’t look pregnant. Obviously, you couldn’t be!

“I am pregnant Hvitserk.” You lift yourself up with your own elbows, looking quite serious about the whole issue.

“You’re pregnant?” His voice is shaky, almost excitable now.

“You don’t exactly pull out, Hvitserk. Of course I’m pregnant.” You say with a light smile. Through the fluffy haze hanging over his head, his face brims with a wide dopey smile. Suddenly, your crabby moods and sickness make sense.

“But you could… you could be late!” Hvitserk suggests. “Are you sure you’re pregnant?”

After enough scares with Margrethe and Ubbe, it seems the most logical of ideals. He never thought you could be pregnant. It seemed impossible that you would be so fertile to him. In his drunken state, it seems easier to swallow than the prospect of being a Father in only a few mere months.

“It’s been months Hvitserk. I-Oh!”

You’re quickly cut off by Hvitserk’s cheek frantically nuzzling against your dress, pressing up against the brewing baby in your belly. Hvitserk inhales sharply, exhaling air back out against your dress.

“Ha, yes!” He laughs, nudging his hands to wind around your stomach. “My sweet, sweet girl… I’ve been waiting for you so long.” He mumbles against the fabric, slumping down against your belly. As your fingers loosen his braids, his soft mumbling of so long becomes lighter and lighter until your left with his light snoring. Hvitserk slides into a light, pleased sleep with his cheek to your stomach.


	5. Drunk Daddie (2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's pretty proud... and pretty drunk. Again.

Little Livunn was only a month old but no one in Kattegat had seen a happier man. He toted you around everywhere and with you, Livunn. Though it was less like she was with you and more live he was with Livunn. At dinner, Hvitserk had a brew of mead in one hand and the other was flush with Livunn against his chest.

“Looook! Look! She’s the most beautiful girl arrooounnnnd.” Hvitserk draws out a great drunken smile, latching his arm around with Ubbe’s.

“Who?” The elder of Aslaug’s sons say.

“My little girl!” He beams downing his drink in its entirety. He slaps the drink onto the table beside them, unpeeling the homemade blankets away from Livunn’s little face.

“She is.” Ubbe throws back.

“By the gods, he’s been kissed by Aegir.” You sink down into your chair sat smack beside Aslaug. Your hand cups over your forehead as if not to look at the mess of Ragnar’s sons. Sigurd is off jauntily strumming his Oud and Ivar sits on the other side of Aslaug with his drink.

She reaches out to clench your hand warmly. “Perhaps. But is it not true that all real men are? He is a good father.”

Most women didn’t have supportive husbands, you supposed. Hvitserk could spend his days strolling about with Livunn and never tire. You loathed knowing he was going raiding soon.

“I suppose it is true. But is it natural that he acts so…” You lack the words. Aslaug chuckles a small smile.

“He is as the gods intend him to be.” 

Hvitserk swings by. This time, bending over the table to meet your lips in his sweet ones. You can taste the alcohol biting the skin covering his lips but it hardly deters you from leaning into his lips.

“Come, come dance! You beautiful–” He reaches for your hand to pull you up.

You push his hand away. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” You roar over music rounding the table and hopping down various steps. As quickly as you make your way down, your faced with Livunn’s eyes as bright as jewels looking about aimlessly. A rare moment as she was often asleep with you and awake with her father. Hvitserk’s arm hooks around your back and holds you close. Your dress brushes up against his trousers with every step.

“I can smell it on you.” You laugh. You always told him to wash up before bed but Livunn quickly got over the smell of alcohol, though she was partial to your scent. Mother equaled food, you supposed.

“Livunn doesn’t mind.” Hvitserk shrugs. “Why should you?”

Your lips were caught in another boozy kiss. Mead was a permanent stamp on the life you had with Hvitserk. Yes, you supposed, if the little princess didn’t mind… why should you?


	6. NSFW: Por Favor?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk likes taste tests. Even when he's not invited.

She was a woman after his own heart. Not only was she beautiful and witty, but she cooked. God she cooked things he could only dream of and was inventive with peculiar items as well. The quirky items like a waffle breakfast sandwich; waffles slathered in syrup with eggs and bacon sandwiched in between was just the start. He never knew you could cook, but when he found out, he begged Ubbe to take him anytime you were cooking.

“Please, please…”

“Why would you want to come with me, Hvitserk?” Ubbe buttoned up his charcoal shirt over the fine curls on his chest. Hvitserk desperately moves in front of his brother, begging to be his date to the dinner rather than Margrethe that night.

“I want her.” Hvitserk babbles out as quickly as he could. Ubbe stares, raising an eyebrow up on his handsome forehead before turning away to find his belt. He feeds it through the loops before running his hands down his .

“You said that about Margrethe too.” Ubbe slaps his thigh. “And other women.”

“(Y/N) is different. She’s not only curves… and I almost have her. I go to see her every week.” Hvitserk falls back onto the bed beside his brother, sighing with his long hair draped over a fluffy pillow. There went his ambitions for the night…

Ubbe’s jaw tensed for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows tight between his fingers until he sighs. With any of his brothers, he felt obligated to take care of them: needs and wants.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

* * *

Ubbe

Hvitserk is coming too.

From the moment you saw that message, you knew it was going to be a long ass night. Nevermind tonight, Hvitserk has been coming to the hospital where you worked as a nurse every week to give you something. Or send you something. It was always something that had the other nurses gossiping about her bubbly ray of sunshine. He was insistent… and while you loved that, he hadn’t actually asked to date you. You weren’t about to do that for no man. What would your mami say? Or mama? Not happening.

But how could you tell Ubbe no?

“Knock, knock. You left the door open again.” Ubbe says as he closes the door behind Hvitserk. You finish plating a small little cutesy cake, a hobby that you developed in your spare time. After finishing, you ran over to Ubbe, standing on your tippy toes with your sunkissed hand against his cheek. You gently kiss one side of Ubbe’s cheeks before another.

“Hola,” Hvitserk gives a meek little smile and comes up for his kisses as well. It was cute to hear his deep voice trilling the language closest to your heart.

You hold his hands in your own, “Bendiciones, Hvitserk. I have something new for you.” You tap his nose with sticky fingers, taking a spoon into a white jiggly flan like treat with cinnamon on top. The cool metal brushes across his lips and he gladly opens his mouth to receive his new treat.

“Good?” You ask.

“Yeeaah,” He has a way of laughing so good naturedly, full heartedly, that it melts you like ice cream in the summer. His hand slides around to your waist, separating his legs very slightly. The space is quickly filled when he pulls your body to occupy the space.

“Gods… You look beautiful.” Hvitserk leans up, pulling a few bouncy curls straight. They bounce back like something spring loaded, freshly washed with the delicate smell of coconut and flowers. He knew you were sensitive about your ‘frizzy’ hair. He never seemed to love it any less.

A deep, guttural noise made its way up Ubbe’s throat. He looked from your bodies tangled along the kitchen out towards the living room where you claimed you needed help with something. Anything to shake his attention away from the scene in front of him– that he really had no complaints about watching.

“Ah… ay, I’m sorry Ubbe.” You pull out of Hvitserk’s arms. He almost feels cheated when you take Ubbe by hand to the living room.

“Can you move this? Por favor, lindo?” Scratching across the tile alerts him to furniture.

“Here?” Ubbe heaves out of breath.

“No, no that looks odd…”

They were rearranging furniture. Just like that, he was left for some cold fluffy couches and a spread of hot food that he never had before. He recognized the smell of pork stuffed with pork and could easily name avocado and the rice with some kind of weird tiny brown bean. But there were pockets of steaming, bubbly fried pastry and slimy banana leaf covered pockets and bananas that he couldn’t place.

It started simply. A pocket of the weird fried thing, which had chicken or meat on the inside depending on which one it was. It was good– but curiosity took over to the slimy banana leaf item, which was some sort of yellow ‘pastel,’ as he recalled you called it once. Once it started, it snow balled from pork and rice to bananas and more of the jiggly coconut stuff.

Maybe it wasn’t that he was hungry. Just… neglected. Ubbe shouldn’t have come, he told himself. Because if he didn’t come, he would have had you all to his damn self and-

“Hvitserk!” Uhoh.

Your heels clapped across the ground faster than his fat ass could waddle away, pushing him up against the granite countertops. Hvitserk simply leaned back while you balled fists of his black v-neck in your fists, shoving him over. You had a strict rule. You ate all together.

“Why would you do that?” You leaned as he eased himself back. Despite his strength, it was intoxicating when you touched him unabashedly. His brother was still there, flexing his arms to fold one over another.

“Ah… taste test?” He answered.

“A taste test?!” You drop off sharply.

That was Ubbe’s clue to get gone because he quickly slid out the door with a click of the lock. Hvitserk’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked from the door to the woman below him, dragging him to the ground with her right there and then. He stared unimpeded at you as you fell upon him immediately. You kissed him hard, pressing your tongue past his lips. As soon as he became welcoming to the kiss, you pulled away.

“I-I’m sorry!” Hvitserk full out laughed, his hands resting down upon your hips. Your hands cracked upon his, reprimanding him for even daring to try. A low hum escapes your lips, reaching down to hike the edges of your dress over the roundness of your ass. To Hvitserk’s pleasure, you wore nothing but black and purple. Straps and lace teased his eyes, only worsened as you pulled the tiny fabric away from your cunt.

Glistening wet. Hvitserk chewed on his cheek until bitter blood coated his tongue. He lurched up, thick with longing. “Just… just a taste.”

You yanked his head by his hair, dragging him up. “Oh no, I’m having a taste test first. If you’re a good boy, and you beg right, maybe I’ll give you a little bitty taste. Is that clear, corazon?”

Beg right? He dropped back onto the floor with a heavy thump, tossed back while your hands shoved their way into his jeans. “Shit.” Hvitserk said, knowing in fact that you were searching for his arousal that pricked up through his clothes.

“Is that clear?!” As soon as you had him in your perfect little hands, you shot him a glare. Hvitserk’s hips lifted up into your hands, meeting your eyes with his own hazy eyes deep in longing.

“Yes, its clear! Yes, Odin…” Hvitserk snarled.

Not sparing another second, you moved your hips over his. He shifted impatiently underneath you, arching his hips up for his tip to meet your soaked entrance.

“No.” You said, shoving his hips back down to the ground. “I don’t think you know.”

Hvitserk’s cheeks filled with blood, hot and embarrassed that he had been caught. His breath hitched, his cock dribbling precum from his excitement. “I do!” He shrieks.

“Then stop squirming like a whore,” You snap, a loud crack ringing within the kitchen. His face beat a deep red, snapping back with a soft moan from Hvitserk’s lips. He didn’t only want that, he wanted more. Your hips sunk down on top of Hvitserk’s pulsing cock, bringing him into your body with the aid of gravity. Hvitserk grit his eyes tightly, knitting his eyebrows together as you took him so well. He fought back a heavy groan that drifted off his lips, your body grasping his length like a vice.

“Hush,” You say, alternating your hands to brace yourself on Hvitserk’s chest. And oh, your hips drove him out and in your body slowly, almost appreciatively at first. His dick slid through your inner walls with a hot friction that swelled your core in excitement. Hvitserk’s hands nervously tapped the tile, scared to come back to your hips for fear of your hands smacking him back off. But he wanted to, the gods knew that much, and so his fingers drifted across your thighs.

“You can’t even help yourself.” You let loose an irritable growl that rose through your throat. “You’re desperate.”

Hvitserk’s hands managed to settle on your hip, stretching his thumb as far as he could reach it to the mound of your cunt. You sunk heavily down onto him, ready to snatch him up when the pleasure soared through your system like a heavy bit of lightning through the sky. His thumb found its destination, curling and flickering across your clit. It welled your body like an explosion you could barely hold back. It was his only chance– Hvitserk’s hips buckled up into you, spreading your pussy wide with his dick as he sawed his cock deeper into your channel. With every thrust, your hips fell back onto his.

That fucker. “Why can you never listen…” You moaned harshly, Hvitserk’s teeth locking tightly as his movements became more and more erratic. As his thrusts became frantic, your nails clawed into his skin, drawing blood that bubbled up to the surface. The pain was hot at the sight, but his savage thrusts were relentless. He braced one hand at your hip, exhaling sharply when you gave a sharply punched out shriek. Your entire body convulsed about him, milking him of his seed with every tight spasm of your walls. His body offered up his seed, spilling deep inside your wet channel. As your hips stilled from being bucked on his cock, Hvitserk spared you a pitiful look.

“Did I pass your taste test? Can I… please?” He says in only a whisper. You looked up, raising your hips off of his softened cock. His dick pulled away, only for Hvitserk to meet the one sight of he dreamed of, a creampie of his own rich seed.

“Si,” You say, this time rearranging yourself to straddle his face. Hvitserk’s long tongue went to work, lapping sticky seed from your folds. “You passed my test.”


	7. How About Ubbe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk consoles his best friend.

“It’s because I’m fat.”

“Pretty baby… you’re gorgeous.” Hvitserk assures.

“Then why did he leave me!”

This wasn’t where Hvitserk thought he would be tonight. He imagines himself quite drunk with at least one blonde or brunette eating a buttercream cake on his lap. So yes, the shock of sitting flat in Aslaug’s garden was not a welcomed one. But nonetheless, there they were.

“Eat some more cake.” Hvitserk says, lurching over thick layers of chiffon that draped over his skinny black slacks. He’s since dropped his suit jacket somewhere. He thinks that perhaps it’s at the altar, but he can’t quite remember. He slices through a sweet buttercream cake with a popping red middle and slides it into your mouth, curling the light waves of your hair away from your lips. Your hand falls to the bottle of alcohol, swirling it around between drinks.

“I’m going to die alone.” You mumble, wallowing in your so deemed we deserved pity. Hvitserk reaches over to bring you onto his lap, his feet disappearing underneath yards of chiffon. Your starved for the affection and love which you assumed you would be basking in today.

“You’re only twenty five, (Y/N). You can find another man.” Hvitserk says, kissing the side of your jaw and holding you tight. You snort with eyes burning of dry tears. There were no more tears to shed by the running of your eyeliner and mascara, but you still felt like shit every time Hvitserk had to wipe it away.

“Like who?” You snort.

Hvitserk complentates it. “What if I can get you a date with one of my brothers?”

Almost like clock work, he feels you relax into his arms. Gotcha, he thinks. “Not Ivar. Or the other jackass.” You mumble, almost warming to the issue.There was someone in specific… someone you knew that you always wanted.

“It was always Ubbe.”

It was always Ubbe.


	8. NSFW: A Pact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You once made a pact with Hvitserk. If you were still single at a certain age, you would have babies together. Hvitserk cashes in on that.

It was your eighth baby shower of the year to go to. Between your cousins and the Ragnarssons, you had almost a litter. It was fine. It was their moment. You weren’t about to grinch about either. But after a while the squelch in your stomach every time you saw a round, pregnant belly roared too loud for you to ignore. Well into your thirties, you felt that internal clock clicking down. You just never met the “right” one. Was there such a thing?

“Hurry up Hvitserk,” You slid out with your ‘date’ of the night. Not exactly a boyfriend but your best friend was all you had. He waddled behind you, falling one foot over another with a huge box in his arms so graciously gifted by you to carry. You kept to the lighter gift bag around your elbow.

“I can’t see.” Hvitserk complained even with your arm wrapped around his.

“Oh just waddle, I won’t let you fall.” You say.

“You have before!” Hvitserk squeaked, consoled by a warm hand on his shoulder as the both of you finally made it in. Ubbe held the door apart for you, guiding Hvitserk to set down the package before you went to the mother in question.

“Torvi.”

She was even more beautiful than you imagined. Her slender body rounded into the bump that was Ubbe’s child. A band of flowers and jewels accentuated the curve. If there was such a thing as glowing, she was probably it. The sting of jealousy bit you, again.

“Not today, not today.” You muttered after greeting her. It was about to be a long, long day. You took a seat beside Hvitserk who subsequently sat among his brothers.

It went well. You made it a game of clipping cute pink and blue baby house pins on Bjorn’s massive beard and even felt a little amused watching Ubbe and Ivar chug juice from a little bottle. As cute as it was, Ivar only did it to beat his brothers. Now his head was down against his wrist on the table, groaning. You laughed a bit, rubbing Ivar’s back while moving around him. In your hand, you hold two separate plates. One you set in front of Hvitserk while you take the other. Hvitserk takes up his fork, digging into his plate of shredded pork right away.

“Hvitserk can get his own food (Y/N).” Sigurd sets down a frothy bottle of booze. You shrug, leaning over to pinch Hvitserk’s round cheeks between finely manicured nails.

“But he’s so cuuuute.” You laugh.

“It’s how she shows affection.” Bjorn plucks a clothespin from his beard, clipping it onto Sigurd’s shirt instead.

“I don’t understand why you don’t date. Not only do you do these things but you live together,”

“As roommates,” You interject.

“You’re always together.” Sigurd says firmly.

He was pushing and pushing. There was finally silence on your lips, unsure what exactly Sigurd wanted you to say. You looked between Hvitserk, who just kept eating, just kept eating, and your full plate. You peered back up to him, blood rushing back to your cheeks.

“You are an asshole.”

But the strong words weren’t yours. Luckily, it was Ivar who lifted his head off of the table and the two quickly spilled over into an argument. Torvi set down a fat piece of cake on one plate, large enough that you thought it might be a quarter, and slipped away.

“Lets go.” You whisper. So you did.

* * *

Sigurd’s words followed you. Why aren’t you dating? Why haven’t you dated? Over and over again you felt your head full with thoughts. It left you shit company for Hvitserk. He didn’t seem to mind, lazing on the couch while dinner simmered on the stove. You made it for sake of your mind needing something, anything to focus on rather than Sigurd’s voice replaying in the deepest crevices of your mind.

“What are you doooiiing?” Hvitserk’s warm hands slid along your waist, interlocking together while nuzzling your nappy hair. You could feel him pressing close for the affection that he was probably in short supply of. You usually watched shows snuggled up cheek to cheek or sometimes, his head in your lap.

“Cooking.” You answer quickly.

“Looks like your just pouting.” Hvitserk waddled you back to the couch much like a penguin. You huffed as you sat lazily beside him, his hands still weaved around your waist. You reclined back onto the comfy, black couch while watching The Crown. Your favourite, at the moment. Hvitserk would go with whatever you wanted to watch. One of Hvitserk’s hands left your waist to comb through your hair.

An apprehensive sigh left his lips, rolling his shoulders back into the couch. “So… do you remember when we were teens and we made a pact?” Hvitserk recounts. You tried to remember what he was trying to get at.

“What pact?” You reply dully.

“You know the one…” No, you really didn’t. “Where if we weren’t married, or with kids by thirty five…” Oh god. You knew exactly what he was talking about. You began a warm humming as if you couldn’t hear him. “We could have babies together?”

“Yes… why?” You say awkwardly, breaking his hold to sit up.

Hvitserk dips his head down, running his tongue over his supple lips. “We could do it. You’ve wanted a baby for years. Let me give you one.” Hvitserk replies, sliding across the couch. It was a harmless motion. One that the both of you often did with one another, but now flat underneath Hvitserk, your breath felt caught deep in your chest. Your words fizzled out into a splatter of unintelligible words. It was far too easy to say yes.

“Okay… but how?” You ask, your hands like heavy weights that simply dropped on your chest below him. Hvitserk snickered gently, dropping his hips against yours. They nestle in the space between your legs and he lets his fingertips drift on the outside of your leg, dragging up underneath the meager fabric of your slip.

“Like anyone else. Let’s make a baby.”

There was a split second where Hvitserk waited for his answer. A split second where you leaned up pressing your lips on his, jerking him closer as if possible, into your core. Hvitserk deepened the kiss, swirling his tongue along yours. Your hands no longer felt heavy. They worked underneath Hvitserk’s slender stomach, curling around his waist. Hvitserk moved down with a long, creeping line of his tongue down to your cleavage. His impatience quickly paid off as he forced your breasts out of the slip, sliding one of your nipples into his mouth. It was hot embarrassment that slid down your spine.

“Don’t think,” Hvitserk said.

You nodded but found some nervousness still lingering as his tongue swirled about your hardened nipples. Your legs quaked around him as he sunk lower. He found your core, lifting your panties from the curve of your ass as far your knees. There he used it as a lead, pushing your legs flat against your chest. Your pussy glistened with juices, the walls of your soaked heat pulsing for Hvitserk. Here it goes, you thought.

“You have no idea how long I needed this…” Hvitserk muttered hot puffs of air against your outer lips. He pressed his lips up against you, dragging his tongue across the slit. Each time he slides his tongue along your folds, he finds himself moaning as if under effects of your taste. The vibrations reverberate up your bundles of nerves, and you rasp a heavy breath. He weaves his tongue between your folds, worshipping your cunt with desperate flicks and smooth kisses. Hvitserk pursed his soaked lips up against your clit, teasing with a sole kiss.

“Oh, don’t start.” You warn, panting harder now. Your sneaky hands shove him down against your cunt. His tongue slid across your clit, softly at first, before lashing against the overly sensitive nub. It was just what you needed. Your toes curled tightly, rocking up into him with words of encouragement. A sudden pulse of pleasure took over, then another, and another bombarded your body. You curled up against Hvitserk, sharply cursing his name over and over like a prayer. He flickered his tongue over the nub until you came down, kissing away any leftover juices from the outside of your pussy.

He glanced up to you, eyes screwed shut and chest swelling in excitement from your first orgasm. The sound of buckles being undone wrung in your ear, but fuck, you were still in the smooth pleasure of your body when the very tip of his twitching head breached past your wet entrance, forcing himself in around quivering walls.

“Hah (Y/N)… you’re so ready to take me.” Hvitserk sank deep, as deep as he could. Your thin panties were tugged back, forcing your legs back against your chest as he pumps his cock into your willing pussy. You couldn’t keep the moans from spilling forth, exciting Hvitserk to new heights. His hips snap all the more quickly, squelching into the juices that soaked his cock.

“You want my babies?” Hvitserk asks, his pace desperate now. Every thrust became quicker, bouncing you between his cock and the cushions of the couch below. You tighten around him.

“Ye… Yes. I want them.” You say mindlessly There were no thoughts running through your mind this time. Your eyes set upon him, bracing himself with one hand on the arm rest while the other commanded your legs back. Hvitserk gasps for air, expelling it as if he couldn’t get it fast enough.

“Them what?” Hvitserk breathes, dragging himself closer to you. You lean up, clenching him tight within your cunt. He wants to hear it, not just know that you do. Your voice strangles out a sharp cry. “Your babies, Hvitserk!” You all but shout, stretched deep and wide by the cock that kisses your cervix.

“That’s right, my babies.” Hvitserk rasps, shouting more sharply when your walls clamp down on his plunging cock. A hot pleasure explodes within your body tearing through every limb you had. Hvitserk was caught in the moment and spills his seed deep inside of your body, rubbing his head up against yours while you were still folded up against him. He waits until every inkling of his seed has spilled within you before sliding off your panties and relaxing fully against you. He heaves and heaves, dropping his head on your shoulder.

“Think it took?” You speak softly, more to yourself than anything. You didn’t have a boyfriend, nor did you need the birth control, so you were hopeful. Too hopeful, you worried.

“We can always go again.”


	9. Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You gave birth to girls!  
> Two girls!   
> Oh... god.

Hvitserk was bumbling in excitement. As soon as he stepped foot on the pier of Kattegat, a messenger carried news that his wife had given birth to two beautiful babies. He bumbled like a bee in spring, eager to leap out of the boat to see his beautiful wife.

“Hurry brother, hurry!” He dips under Ivar’s arm with another man lifting his opposing arm.

“What is the rush? They will still be babies when we get there.” Ivar says as he’s placed on the pier, grasping the crutch with his other arm and walking alongside his brother.

Hvitserk’s head snaps side to side, scanning the beach as he seeks you out. He really doesn’t expect you to be up. Delivering babies is a hard task— but he can’t help hope that she’s around with his instant family. It’s rather exciting when he spots you lightly pacing back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

“(Y/N)!” He calls out. Your gaze flickers over to him before you look down, cemented in place.

“That bodes well.” Ivar snorts sardonically. Hvitserk ignores him, bounding up to where you are pacing. He slides in front of you, grasping either side of your cheeks for kisses that you are less than responsive to. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing can get him down. Not Ivar’s cynical personality and definitely not your gloomy and doomy one either.

“Let me see my pretty babies.” He says as he plucks a bundle from your arms, his eyes are in rapt fascination when you sink back.

“I’m sorry,” You hold the other wiggly baby in your arms. Ivar saunters forward as you shake like a leaf in the wind. He takes away his nephew, or niece, a bit irritably so while claiming you’ll drop them.

“Sorry for?” Hvitserk says, rubbing his finger across the baby’s full cheeks.

“They’re both girls.” You say. It should have been a punch to the gut, he should have been wailing about his legacy or threatening to leave you. But he doesn’t. He just laughs a hardy laugh like the warmth of a fire.

“You aren’t angry?” You say, leaning over Hvitserk’s shoulder.

“Should I be?” Hvitserk tilts his head when the girl in his arms opens her eyes, looking at him in a sleepy daze. Hvitserk’s lips spread delightfully, leaning over to show Ivar the girl he was so proud of. Despite his brother barking at a few shieldmaidens to go away, his heart swells contently.

“You wanted boys.” You say. It’s a widely held belief that there is never a bad day to have a son, and if his father needed sons, so did Hvitserk.

“We didn’t want to deal with the wolves.” Ivar interjects, looking to a little boy who zips past. Hvitserk bobs his head, looking as if that ship had sailed already. You scrunch your eyebrows up.

“Is that true?” You laugh when Hvitserk nods in response.

“Maybe.”

Well, you think, that is apart of his fatherly duties now.


	10. Let's Make Another!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants a daughter!

After a long, long day taking after all four of your sons, there was nothing you wanted to do but rest. Each of the boys were feisty little things– and while you loved them, you wondered how you ended up so be settled with this many boys. Then of course came the changing of the seasons and the reminder how exactly that happened.

Your husband came back from raiding. Here he was, leaning in the doorway as you kissed the last of the boys into bed. You lifted from their side and moved away from the hot stare that Hvitserk bares at you with. He shifts as you walk away from him.

“Come here.”

“No, Hvitserk.” You say, keep firm. If you could keep firm, it would be fine. Hvitserk pushes off the scratchy beam, striding across the dark room to the beating of your heart.

“No, no, no.” You turn on your foot only to find them snapped from the ground. Hvitserk twirls across the floor in a few well executed twirls only to drop down. Your head feels fuzzy when Hvitserk nuzzles into your cheeks, peppering your skin with kisses.

“I know what you want.” You accuse, wiggling out of his arms. Hvitserk sheds his fur cloak, crawling after you with one of those brilliant as the sun smiles. He has an obnoxious way of filling your head with doubt. It’s enough time for Hvitserk to slide you up against the warm line of his body, and you melt back into his arms. Hvitserk buries his nose against your shoulder, settling his arms just under your breasts, still swollen with milk.

“Lets make another baby.” Hvitserk says, his breathy words echoing a million times over in your ear. “I want to see my seed swell you full again.”

It’s no secret that Hvitserk loves it when you’re pregnant. In fact, he often joked that it would be ideal if he could keep you that way. He was certainly trying. It had only been two years since you gave birth last.

“But we have four.” You whine as if its enough. Not with Hvitserk.

“I want a girl,” Hvitserk blurts out almost immediately. “Give me one, pleasse.”

His whine goes over with a deep sigh on your lips. You don’t say anything for a minute as if you could. Hvitserk always gets what he wants with you. It’s your best way of spoiling him and he loves it, too much too.

“We can try again.” You say, relaxing back into his warm arms. His hungry hands slide under the thin cloth of your dress, creeping up until you grip his hands tightly. “But not right now, I’m too tired.” You reprimand him. If only it were that easy.


	11. Only a Beta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves an Omega... but he's only a Beta.

“I need a week off.”

Outside the door, Hvitserk held a bulging envelope that was hemorrhaging cash. The slight whispers within threw him off enough to crack the door slightly open. (Y/N) was sitting atop of his father’s dark wood desk, one of her thick legs over another. Ragnar’s calloused hand drifts across her skin tight skirt, resting on the side of her hip.

“What for?” He inhales loudly, taking in the sickly sweet scent she was emitting. Any fool knew the scent she was putting off was about to set a precedent in the workplace if she came the next few days.

“My heat,” She leans down, tickling her lips over his to just slightly utter the words. His father’s eyes glaze over and so do Hvitserk’s, holding the leather envelope to the trim black suit he wore. He could taste it in the air and it settles bitterly on his tongue, seeing that his father was nearly enjoying the spoils of that venture. His heart is clenching so tightly, it feels as if someone is choking the life out of him.

“Take a suppressant. Or you could do what is best for all of us and… come home with me. Ride it out like an Omega should.” Ragnar suggests. (Y/N) laughs, softly so.

“You would like that wouldn’t you? To make another pup.” She says while her hands caress over Ragnar’s slight beard.

“I always want more.” He grins cheekily.

He can’t take it anymore. Since she came in to assist Bjorn and Ubbe with the trade business, he’s thought of her on him. He’s not the pulsing Alpha that settles a room with a rich, confident scent. He’s a beta– but he’s not about to let that stop him. He’s wanted her for years. He presses the door apart, enough to garner her attention. Ragnar lets out a heavy, annoyed sigh. She slides out from the desk, her pumps clicking on the tile floor as she strides away from his father. As she meets Hvitserk, shoulder to shoulder, she reaches out to grab his upper arm.

“I’d like to bond first.” She says, dropping his arm as quickly as she grasped it. As she walks out, he hears her raving.

“I’m still taking a week off!”


	12. No One Believes You, Hvitserk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His wife might be a psychopath.

They ate together solemnly. No one was saying much of anything, much less with the empty chair against Ubbe’s side.

“You haven’t seen Margrethe either, (Y/N)?” Ubbe asks. Hvitserk watches as his wife flashes a light grin at his brother, eyes pricking into slight crescents. She pulls apart her bread, offering some to him before responding. Her response is lackadaisical at best and its enough to concern Hvitserk.

“The last I saw she was skittering out of the barn and into the forest.” She trills. Ubbe’s face drops, sinking into his chair while his lip twitches. Ubbe’s mouth is dry, exhaling stale air as she went on.

“Oh but don’t be so disheartened Ubbe. I’m sure she’ll come around eventually. How could she stay away from you? Any woman in Kattegat would leap for her place.” She encourages, leaning over to set her hand on Ubbe’s thigh. It’s like unadulterated music to his ears. While Ubbe chimes into her soft words, Hvitserk has noticed raw marks scratch the dorsal surface of her hands. He moistens his lips with his drink.

“You’re right, she’s probably off with Sigurd.” Ubbe lulls his head back against his chair. As Hvitserk looked over to his wife, he couldn’t help acknowledge the slight girlish chuckle that spreads through your lips at that. She’s happy.

“She probably is.”

* * *

Despite his wife’s insistence that Margrethe was last seen in the forest, a few of the people of Kattegat insisted that she was seen shoreside. So naturally his next stop would have been to the sandy beaches of his home. He intended to speak to the fisherman, but when he arrived, their lips were sealed.

“We haven’t seen her my prince.” An older man says as he hauls in a large line. The other men chime in time with him. “Nor we, our prince.”

“But the townsmen said she was here.” Hvitserk pulls at the line with them to haul their catch out onto the shore. As they finish, the oldest of the men there strode around the young prince himself, setting an aged hand to his shoulder.

“Don’t drag us into this. We are simple people with little, we don’t want more taken from us.” The man’s words are innocent enough. But there’s no sense to the words- why would they have more taken from them?

“What do you mean?” The prince asks.

The man goes rigid, having caught something in his peripheral vision. He suddenly jerks away with shy eyes and looks atop of the hill where his wife stands, her hands lightly stroking the wool of a young lamb in her arms.

“Nothing, my prince.” Its automatic. His wife moves away.

* * *

As the days passed, Margrethe had yet to show. Sigurd claimed he hadn’t seen her. Ubbe less so. Yet his wife seemed no more concerned, reflective of Ivar’s interest on the issue. Hvitserk felt the tension swelling in his chest with every passing day. She’s fakely warm, persistent and sweet to Ubbe. It’s hard to push away thoughts of the frightened fisherman or the scratches that now were well on their healing on your arms.

“Where did you get those marks?” Hvitserk asks while she peels away an expensive gown off her shoulders. It pools around her ankles on the smooth floor. She turns around as soon as she has dressed into a shorter nightdress.

“These?” She motions to the recovering scratches, deep but fading away. “I was tending your father’s sheep.”

Lies. He knew there were thralls who did that. He watches as you mount the bed, sliding her hands up his.

“I don’t believe you.” Hvitserk murmurs slightly. The bed creeks as she shifts back with her fingertips drifting across her chest. She leans back aghast.

“So where do you think I got them then?”

There’s silence. Then,

“You think I killed Margrethe?” She says in the slightest voice she could muster, laughing with pure amusement. It’s almost disbelieving and just as sweet as she was an hour ago, it becomes bitter. She leans into him closely, daring him to go on with a tilt to her head.

“Why would you think that of your wife?” She asks, her lips brushing up against his. He’s taken to every moment she came after him before they married. Smelling of all his favourite spices and looking like a bundled up present in those dresses that were just a tad bit more titillating than the other women. He leans back, elbows resting on the bed, and takes in her site. She’s commanding, sexy and dangerous. He wished he had seen this before.

“Because (Y/N), everyone is afraid to speak. Especially when they see you… and those marks. Those human marks.” Hvitserk’s jaw flexes a few times as if he’s nervous to go on. She follows his ever-perplexed eyes to her hands. Somehow he hopes he is wrong.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? You would like it if I snuffed your little whore out. Then you would have an excuse to be rid of me.” She says. It’s confusing enough that you knew about their secret. He looks down almost immediately in something she deems as cowardice.

“You didn’t think I knew? I just didn’t care. You are mine, Hvitserk.” She exhales warm breath onto his skin. The air about the both of them is swirling with tension. She moves away from him with a deep laugh– mocking his insistence that she killed Margrethe for Hvitserk. She reaches out to her thick furs coat, sliding them back over her slight shoulders when she speaks again from within the doorway.

“If I was to kill someone, it would be for far more than jealousy. So… don’t flatter yourself. No one would believe you anyway.”


	13. Messy Braids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pissed off the wrong woman.

He had no idea why she was so angry at him.

Since he got up that morning, he could tell something was on her mind. She was curt with him, wouldn’t let him give her kisses and worst of all, she refused to help him in any of her usual affection filled tasks. One of which being his hair that sat wild down his back, flopped over his eyes. His fingers moved sloppily down a braid, flipping over the strand to find a loose weave and pieces of his hair plucking out like wheat in the field. He tossed the many sloppy braids back over his shoulders and approaches the Great Hall with a deep wavering breath.

The moment he walked in it was a mistake. The Great Hall was ruefully busy. As he pushed his way through bunches of crowded groups, his eyes fell upon his beautiful wife chattering away with Margrethe. Her hair braided to the side in thick portions. The weave isn’t tight, but none of the hairs stick out like his. He sees she’s gone the extra mile by braiding flowers down in a line along her hair. Show off.

Finally he makes his way to the table his family sat at. His brothers argue about something lackluster while the girls ignore him entirely. He opts to sit beside Ubbe instead of beside his wife when he feels tension straining at the base of his skull.

“Hvitserk!” Bjorn pulls at one of his braids in a flick of his wrist, the force of his tug nearly knocking him off his feet. Ivar turns his shoulder to his brother with his tongue coursing past the droplets of ale on his lips.

“Poor Hvitserk, what has happened to you?” Ivar looks over his normally trim appearance. For Hvitserk, it was bizarre not to see everything in its place. At least in the way he dressed.

“What?” Hvitserk plays dumb, rearranging his belt. It wasn’t his clothes that were the issue. He could often manage to dress himself fine, it was his braids that often served troubling.

“It was not (Y/N) that dressed you today, huh? What poor thrall did you ask to?” Ivar says. Hvitserk looks over at (Y/N). A wide, prideful giggle spreads apart her lips like she knows that no one helped him tonight. Hvitserk plops back into his seat by Ubbe, ignoring her smug smiles.

“No one. My lovely wife told Inga not to help me.” Hvitserk reminds, reaching to his cup. He swipes it up a little more forcefully than he meant to, and the liquid overturns into his willowy hands. Hvitserk ignored the spill opting to lap his sticky hand with his tongue.

“And she listened?” Sigurd asks raspily. Hvitserk lightly looks down to his bowl while a thrall fills it with a thick porridge.

“She is more afraid of angering (Y/N) than angering me.” Hvitserk says well aware of the wrath that fell anyone he flirted with. Over the years he learned not to do that. But yesterday was admittedly a blur. Was that why you tormented him? Ubbe runs his fingers through the weak braiding of his brother’s hair with a wicked smile tugging at his lips.

“Ubbe what is so funny?” Hvitserk says in warning. His wife finished eating a light meal and went back to gossiping with Margrethe when Ubbe leans into his brother’s ear in a hushed whisper. Over the thralls weaving in and out with drinks, one can barely hear his words.

“What have you done to anger (Y/N), who never angers?” Ubbe suggests. Hvitserk snorts at that, reclining back in his chair. Obviously ‘never’ was a lie.

“How am I to know? She never tells me. She wants me to figure it out.” Hvitserk shrugs. Ubbe looks over to (Y/N), when she cuts in.

“It was our anniversary, Ubbe, and he got so piss drunk I had to carry him home.” She says, setting down her cup with a ‘clang.’ Maybe that part of yesterday was a blur. Maybe he did have a little bit too much to drink. Across the table, Sigurd makes a folded his arms one over the other and settled back.

“No wonder she’s left you like this.” Sigurd throws Hvitserk a dismissive glance.

“You would drink too if you had a beautiful wife to share your drinks with. My wife makes me need another drink from her lips every night.” Hvitserk quips. He threaded his hand through his messy braids, unweaving them back out as he spoke.

“Come here.” His wife says. Glancing over, he finds his wife extending her arms to him. In place of the scowl she expected out of him, her face lost the sassy quality it contained all evening, and bore a soft smile pulling up her rosy cheeks. He almost felt like an anxious pup to its mother as he darts out of his chair and into her arms. She smells of the salty sea air in her hair and perhaps a few flowers of the fields that all remind him of home.

“You never could braid,” She murmurs into his ear, loosening the last of his braids. Hvitserk gives a toothy, dumb smile.

“That is why I need you.” He meets her words just as eagerly, stealing his first kiss of the day.


	14. He's Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he wanted to do is establish paternity.

“Tell me he is mine.”

“Hvitserk, I do not want to talk about it right now.”

Since you gave birth, he had been relentless. He trailed after you like a hungry dog to its next meal asking you things that were never his business. Whether you were in town or out, he sought to establish his paternal rights to the child. The baby in question was nestled on your breast popping off your breast from his last meal. As hungry as Hvitserk, that was only a part of a reason why he thought the child was his. You stormed down a hill with a hand keeping the baby tight in his sling. Hvitserk chased after you.

“He is mine, isn’t he?” Hvitserk abruptly grabbed your arm. You sighed and hooked your kill of rabbit on the belt that draped over your dress. Hvitserk’s other hand grasped your other arm. He wants to know, you think. Of course, he wanted to know. Any man would want to know. So in the most dignified way you can, you set your hand on your hips and leaned up to him in confidence.

“Do I look loose to you?” You ask. You have that face. The one Hvitserk finds too cute. Your nose flares just slightly and your eyebrows knit up tight. But what he thinks is most adorable, is the way your lips purse together. Despite your short height, you try to scare him with a small bounce to your toes.

“No, of course not.” Hvitserk holds back his laugh, backing up to every subsequent jab of your fingers against his slender chest. His lips pull up into a delighted grin when you finally sass off to him.

“Then of course he is yours. You come here asking me stupid questions because of your brothers, scaring away the kill.” You wipe a bloodied hand on his chest, dropping it back to your side when you finish speaking.

It doesn’t even faze him.The words spilled out of his lips so quick, you could barely process them.

“Then you will marry me?” Hvitserk cups over your sticky hand, holding it tight. The feelings of rage and anger dropped. Instead your lips parted in disbelief. Will you marry him? Your hand swung to his cheek, cupping the side of his face and leaning in for a kiss.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you fool.”


	15. Take It! Hide Me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd's Oud should really not be in your arms right now.

As a one time thrall to Aslaug, you were well used to her boys daily antics. None like Hvitserk’s however, who at this moment had just burst through the room. Several thralls were knocked over as he careened past them. Your fingers still on the strings of a loom as he tosses what was Sigurd’s Oud over to you cackling richly. You caught it out of fear of what could happen if you didn’t.

“I don’t want this from you,” You say hugging it close to your chest.

“Take it, take it!” You heard him say as he ducks behind you for shelter.

“He’s coming.” Ubbe stands by the doorway, leaning with his furs draped around his neck.

“You are high! Have you been taking those herbs again?” You bite back when Sigurd’s loud and heavy steps alert you to his impending presence. Immediately you drift back to sit on a stool to shield Hvitserk from his younger brother. Your skirts hike over the entirety of the stool as you flip the Oud over and readjust its strings as Sigurd once showed you.

“Where is he?!” Sigurd shrills as he comes in. Beneath you, Hvitserk’s chilly hands drift up your calf. Gradually he tickles you with soft spirals etched into your skin. Not now, you think.

“Hello Sigurd.” You set you hand against the one tightly wound about his axe.

“Why do you have my Oud?” Sigurd breathes out, his chest raising and falling from his run here. The hands gradually coursing up your knees make it even more tempting to sell out Hvitserk. He knows what he’s doing. He isn’t a child anymore.

“Hvitserk said you wanted to teach me some more.” You lean forward, batting your eyelashes at him. For a moment, Sigurd actually believes such a thing. He walks around your stool in a lazy stroll before grunting and coming back to face you.

“Then let’s go somewhere private.” Sigurd kneels before you, extending his hand out to yours. Hvitserk’s hand is now at your thigh.

“I… I should put away my things first.” You stutter. When you don’t get up, Sigurd throws up your skirts. His hand shoots to the ones on your upper thigh. When he flashes your legs to the others, you crack your palm across his cheek in a slap. Sigurd’s face snaps to the side. And when that happens, Hvitserk’s cheeky smile glimmers from the space between your legs.

“Well… this is awkward.”


	16. Don't Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't have him, you wanted to go to Valhalla.

Strike after strike buckled your shield. The heels of your boots took on mud of the battlefield as a hulking man took after you. In your bloodied hand was your axe, prepared at your side to strike back when your shield cracked apart. The wood splintered your arms and you instinctually hopped back while minding the positions of others. The smell of your own blood sunk into your brain, pulsing a warning that you were going to die. The ravens hovering above turned their beady eyes upon your staggering form. Their wings spread wide, casting a shadow over the battlefield. Hugin and Munin were here to take you home to Valhalla. They were here for you.

Finally. You were so tired.

You slunk forth bouncing the axe in your hand. It wouldn’t be much longer. The man swung at you, missing once. On the second his blade collided into not you, but another shield. There was no third strike. Blood splattered over the strands of your braided ponytail down to the firmness of your upper chest in fresh blood that contrasted against the old.

“(Y/N)!” You recognized it as Prince Hvitserk calling out to you, shoving you away from the carnage. Your limbs were heavy as Hugin and Munin fluttered away.

He was most definitely enraged when you made it back to camp. Your side was thick with blood that stained your armor. Hvitserk gripped your elbow firmly, tugging you back out of the public eye of the other warriors and shieldmaidens alike.

“You were not supposed to be in the main lines. What were you doing out there?” Hvitserk interrogates as your hand came to your raw side. With such blood running over your fingers, his words only serve to aggravate you.

“Neither were you. You disobeyed Ivar. He could give a rats ass less if I died.” You pull back from him and gesture down to the slice that reached down from the bend in your stomach down towards the junction of your hip to leg.

“When did you become this hateful?” Hvitserk mutters into your ear.

“When you stopped caring for me. I do not want to be here any longer, how can you not see? Why did you save me?!” You shove him back, smacking the side of his head. He leans his upper body back waiting for you to elaborate. You cast him an exasperated sigh and limp away from him back toward the ruckus of camp. The aroma of meat, prattle of horny men and women, and the lack of interrogation all seem much more attractive than talking to a man that couldn’t see. There was no way he could understand. It’s as if he couldn’t comprehend your question. His eyes dart about and he steps forth.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of losing you!” Hvitserk yells.

You stop. Blinking furiously to comprehend your words, you fiddle anxiously with the axe still in your hand. How could he stand the thought, when he was with Margrethe? Now that she was gone he had complaints? You turn to chuck the axe at him. It clanks against the wood behind him. An angry frown makes its way to your lips.

“You only say that now that you have lost what you had.” You say, stumbling back towards him. “You say that now that you don’t have her on your lap.

Hvitserk falls into a thoughtful silence with your face in front of his. Your eye is sporting a purplish bruise from what must have been an ill placed headbutt and you are peppered by blood. It’s unlike any state he’s seen Margrethe in. You look like a warrior, like a queen. His hand cups the angle of your jaw.

“I say it because you own my thoughts. Wherever you go, I go. I can’t help myself when you walk away. You own my heart.” Hvitserk casts back, snaking his hand to the back of your head. The words spoken lightly and truthfully swell your heart. You reach around to grab his shirt, pulling him close. Your lips meet his, cutting off his breath in one smooth and quick kiss that left him staggering closer for more.


	17. A True Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reveal a secret to him. It's not what he thought.

You hadn’t eaten all week. The stress of civil war in between this divided family was enough to keep your stomach ill at ease. It wasn’t the only reason, however. You confided in Ivar the reason why you couldn’t set out on horse or lead a portion of his army.

“I’m with child,” You stand before Ivar in a bundle of hot nerves, drawing your hand over your slight distended stomach. For such a witty man, his jaw dropping was certainly not what you expected. He quickly composed himself.

“You will tell Hvitserk?” Ivar’s nails drew into his chair as he leaned forward. Bjorn and Lagertha retreated. You should have nothing to fear now of course.

“Tell me what?” Someone says— Hvitserk himself, it must have been. You look desperately into Ivar, whose lips have sealed tight. He drops back into his chair, staring triumphantly outwards with his head held high. Nothing could tear him down after such a victory.

“Ah.” You stutter. Hvitserk comes to stop in front of you. Your hands are clammy and you step back, your head swimming in anxious thought.

“Have you been sleeping with him?” Hvitserk elevates his eyebrows, peering to Ivar. His arm falls on yours and the few people in the room scurry out like animals in the brush. Ivar says nothing, looking as if his brother is the one digging himself a new hole to lie in.

“I only have eyes for you.” You say, reassuring him. Ivar snaps his fingers, pointing down to you as if to command his brother to listen. Ivar manages his crutches and limps out of the room.

You peer up at him through your wet lashes, unaware that you’ve begun to cry. “I am pregnant.” You say, your toes casting circles on the cold floor. Hvitserk shifts his weight back onto the heel of his foot before to the balls, bouncing in place.

“You are telling me the truth?” He asks holding your palms. For eating nothing at all this week, you feel a bout of strength. You nod enthusiastically, feeling as if for a brief moment the stress of this war rolls off his back.

“Then I am going to be a father?” Hvitserk says shortly after, his chest swelling pridefully as he pulls you in tight. The warmth radiating from his body heats not only your skin, but your heart that radiates in pride.

“Of course you will be.”

Hvitserk makes a charmed face, the one where you are sure that regardless of anything out there, the Hvitserk in here will take care of it. Hvitserk’s arm shoes you out of the room to where mead and ale are in supply, shieldmaidens dance and even Ivar rejoices.

“Then come, we have two victories to celebrate tonight. You’ll sit on my lap like a prize!” Hvitserk shouts among the warriors, throwing one arm into the air while the other falls to your full womb for a soft tickle.

“And you too.”


	18. That's MY wife!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the death of his daughter, Hvitserk pulls away. He tells himself:
> 
> He doesn't care. He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.He doesn't care.
> 
> But he cares.

“Have you seen Hvitserk lately?”

You asked the brothers a hundred times. The only true answers you found were from the youngest of brothers. Sigurd would tell you where to find Hvitserk regardless of where he might be while Ivar would tell you not to waste your time. You shouldn’t have either with the status of your home. At the moment, Sigurd sat in your room as you worked keeping house, tending to all the unnecessary things that he knew would never help your relationship with his brother.

“I know you don’t want me to answer that.” Sigurd says.

You squeeze the water out of a cloth and nod in agreement. You didn’t want to know that. He was hiding from you. A rasping cough sent thoughts of Hvitserk away. You slid alongside the tiny form underneath furs, shivering despite the fact that it was sunny outside.

“Hey mamas…” You dabbed the temple of the small child in bed. Her skin was clammy and hot. When she coughed, her chest sounded full of a nasty fluid that you could only guess as to how she might have gotten it. Her tired eyelids lightly parted, glimmering her grandfather’s glimmering blue eyes at you.

“’m tired… where is he?” She whispered in a heavy voice. Her eyes kept sliding shut as you shook her lightly to wake her up. The cloth now rested along her forehead.

“Go get him,” You said back to Sigurd. He straightened his back, coming by your side to warmly kiss the back of his niece’s palm. He darts off as you cradle her small hand. She grew weaker by the days and now, her hand moved with less and less excitement.

“Please don’t go. Don’t die on me. He’ll be home soon.”

The words kept her with you over the past month, but there was only so many times that trick could work. Your luck ran out when her eyelids slid shut for the one last time.

Hvitserk found solace in places he shouldn’t have. In food, women, alcohol and his brother’s trivial games. It was easier to be drunk than it was to be at home where his daughter and wife were. She was a doting and good wife– too good of a wife for him. And god, a fantastic mother. But he couldn’t be there with his sick daughter. He wasn’t the star father, star husband or anything. He didn’t know that he wanted to be.

Hvitserk swayed into the home, using the walls as an anchor. His feet were unnaturally heavy as he walked in like a newborn giraffe. Clumsy and falling all over the place. He fell over your body, grinning like the idiot he was when he saw his daughter and her hand in yours. His hand extended out to his daughter’s cheek but it was unnaturally cold and firm.

“What is wrong with her?” He asks you. Your face was buried in between your interlocked fingers, sobbing. Her hand laid limp.

“Baby please.” Hvitserk’s hand moves over to shake you out of your stupor. He didn’t want it to be like this. If only he wasn’t so drunk, he would know that she was gone. He would know that all the times she begged him to stay meant something. That she knew what was coming too.

“She’s gone.” You say, wiping away built up tears off your cheeks. Hvitserk’s hand grips you in a rock hold grip. The realization flooded over him quick, making his mind so blurry that when he goes to leave, he careens into the wall. The thoughts fill his mind with so much pressure that he thinks he might throw up. Behind him, you scramble to your feet. You chuck the closest item at him, whizzing through the air until it makes a violent crack against those beautiful braids that you once loved so much.

“Why do you hate me?!”

There’s no response. Hvitserk’s tense shoulders relax and he goes on his way out the door. He knew he didn’t deserve you, or his family. But he just couldn’t handle it.

* * *

“Hvitserk.”

Ubbe shakes his younger brother out of a kiss. He was trying to warm up the blonde in his lap, as if she needed any warming done. She was so ready for him, he could taste it on her whimpering lips.

“What?” His lips scowl against the blonde.

“Do you see your wife?” Ubbe says knowing that the two had not worked out any other arrangements outside of marriage. Just the other day, she told Sigurd of her plans to divorce Hvitserk. Hvitserk shrugs away the arm on his and moves back to the woman’s needy lips.

“Don’t tell me she actually came? Is she watching?” Hvitserk curls his fingers through her hair. Ubbe sighs tiredly, grabbing his young brother’s chin to face him where you were. His eyes lock with Bjorn’s who presses butterfly soft kisses to the side of your neck.

“Are you flirting with me, Bjorn?” Your cheeks glowed a rosy shade under the effects of the sour alcohol you ingested. No one else was around the table where you were with the eldest Ragnarsson. Bjorn slid your braid over your shoulder after pressing one last kiss to your neck, affectionately rubbing his scratchy beard against your neck. It was different and strange, the pool of excitement under your skirts.

“Well, you are divorcing Hvitserk. Let me take care of you instead. It is how it should have been.” Bjorn says slowly, running his hand past your thick braid.

The fucker smiled at him. He smiled knowing what he was doing. He smiled knowing that was his damn wife Bjorn slid out of her chair. Hvitserk abruptly shoved the woman off his lap, jerking forward. She cried out hitting the floor as if he cared. The scene of them together wasn’t completely unfamiliar, but the jealousy was one he hadn’t felt in years.

“Are you jealous, brother?” Ivar laughs beside him. For once, Sigurd agrees with him.

“She needs the sex too.” He winks.

“She can do what she wants. We’re divorcing.” Hvitserk says, gripping the edge of the table. It would be better this way… if you found a man that deserved you. As he looked away, he couldn’t deny that he needed to look back. It eats at him like a bad itch. She’s not going to do it… she wouldn’t do it to him. He was her first everything. When he looks back, he finds Bjorn’s long braids just barely swishing in sight through the roaring crowd. She deserved a better man, but Bjorn wasn’t it.

“No!” Hvitserk leaps over the table.

* * *

You knew Bjorn was big. He was unlike any of the other Ragnarsson boys. He towered over you behind one of the buildings, grinding himself over the round of your ass while boxing you in with his firm arms. The wood of the building was chilled and even more so with the cool wind. You didn’t care, your fingers could burn in the wind. This was the attention you craved from him in your younger years, every burning touch of his body and sultry words in your ear. His lips whisper soft things in your ears you hadn’t heard in years from Hvitserk.

“(Y/N)!”

Good gods. His voice was like a nightmare Sigurd assured you wouldn’t happen. Sigurd said it wouldn’t happen because why would he come after you? He was so clearly out of love with you. Bjorn’s attention snaps back to a sure punch to his side, glancing lazily over his shoulder. You could have withered.

“Stop it!” You shriek. Hvitserk’s arm cocks back, chilled without so much as a cloak to keep himself warm. His light skin is tinged pink.

“Get off of my wife!” Hvitserk shoves at his brother who moves more willingly away from you this time. Bjorn lifts his hands away from your body as Hvitserk jerks you back to him with a light growling rattling the strings of his throat. Despite the fact that you were wiggling out of his arms, Hvitserk’s eye fell upon his older brother, jerking up to him.

“I don’t want to fight you over a woman.” Bjorn steps away, his boots shaking on the soil. He smiles down to you, turning against the biting wind into the dark streets of Kattegat. Before he was even out of eyesight, you abruptly shoved Hvitserk back into the building.

“What is your problem, Hvitserk? Hm? You can’t bear to see me have any pleasure after we lost her?!” You accuse. Normally you would have been at least smiling that he came after you. With so many years in disfunction, even a little bit of affection seemed like the water of the gods. Hvitserk catches his breath and shrugs his shoulders. If he was in his right and sensible mind he would have backed off. Perhaps let his ex, or soon to be ex wife enjoy herself. But the sight of his brother’s twinkling eyes mocked him every time he closed his eyes.

“Not when I can give it.” Hvitserk slams himself into you. His body rushes you against the wood of this new building, descending his lips upon yours when you move to object. There’s no good excuses for his actions. He knows this. He only hopes you were not as done with the need of having sex with him as you were in being with him. To his surprise, you leaned into his kiss despite his hands rushing to hike up your skirts. His breath wavers once you pull away, all but hiking the skirts to your hips.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, letting his finger glide shamefully across your slick pussy wet from his brother’s touches. Or perhaps even Hvitserk himself. He waits for your shy, self-deprecating nod before diving down between your legs. His mouth trails over every inch that he could reach, swirling his tongue along your inner folds as if he was a hungry dog. Your hands curved over his bobbing head, reminding you with every long strip he lapped, just how hungry you were for him for so many years. You want to push him in– but he presses himself forward, his nose against your soft hair. His tongue begs for more and more, and you’re sure that he missed being between your legs as much as you missed that wonderful tongue that once swirled around spoons, now swirling around your clitoris.

Your hands grasp and knead at his braids, tightening in warning that it wouldn’t be long. The pleasure spirals like something spring loaded. Before you can help it, you screech out your orgasm. Your legs threaten to cave in on holding themselves up. Hvitserk’s strong arms steady you by pinning you back, taking everything you had to offer with obscene slurping along your folds. Sweat beaded down your neck as he resurfaced to kiss you, lips wet with your own taste.

“You can’t tease me with a taste and not give me the main course. I need it.” He says with a deep chuckle that warmed you with shivers, lifting you up onto his hips with fingers he could hardly even feel. Home was close– and you nod despite knowing the past you both shared together. In the moment, it didn’t matter.

“Princes always get dessert.”


	19. I Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are in a love rectangle.   
> She is the forgotten one.

He knew that you were feeling… left out, for a lack of other words. Ubbe had made his choice to marry Margrethe and with that acceptance, you stopped having sex with him. Despite Margrethe’s consent to continue this odd polygamous square you all had. Ubbe was in a piss poor mood since. Why is she so angry with me? I do not want to lose her! Ubbe begged Hvitserk to remedy the issue.

“Where are we?”

Hvitserk bent you underneath the hammock of wayward branches. They stuck out at odd angles around the perfect spot in the forest. It was a deep green clearing where one could see the bright twinkle of stars that crept along the sky. He had made a campsite for the night, warm with the crackle of fire and smell of crisp flowers.

“Here.” Hvitserk says while unpeeling the cloth that squandered your vision. Black bled to colours of… well more black based on the burnt buttered bread and burnt tips of meat. Hvitserk plops down on the blanket spreading out with his hands behind his head and waits for you to do the same. His pale cheeks are plucked with a bright and gentle smile.

“And… where is here exactly?” You ask, looking around to everything set in place. There were some pale colours in the food but overwhelmingly, everything was charred black. You slide down onto your knees beside his stomach.

“With me. I brought you your favourites.” Hvitserk pushes around the burnt tips of chicken, looking for a piece that was a bit less charred. He found one that was satisfactory and presses the dark corner of the meat to your lips. You let him press in the white meat, trying your best not to grimace, but the bitter bits got to you. Your tongue ran across your lips that are meld together, flakes of black. He chalks out a laugh and immediately, it triggers a ripple effect. You drop your head back in amusement on his belly, a piece of charred bread in your fingertips.

“Did you make this?” You ask, waving it about.

Hvitserk nods, letting his fingertips weave through your braids. “I shouldn’t have.” He cackles a wheezing laugh.

“No son of Aslaug can cook.” You laugh, rolling your head along the muscles of his stomach. You wouldn’t trust Aslaug to cook for you either though! All the brothers attempted it at some point or another.

“It was an important occasion!” Hvitserk hikes you up onto his chest. Heat radiates off of his chest and you wonder what he might mean when he blatantly presents him with a hammered golden ring. As you expected, the ring is flashier than Margrethe’s. A decision that was surely made with purpose– the brother’s knew what you were trying pull away.

“(Y/N), I want to marry you. I–” You roll up to sit, cutting off Hvitserk’s words so quickly that he has no time to recuperate. Your words fly out all in a hurry.

“I don’t want another act of pity. First Ubbe with his– with his pity fucks and now you? I thought you loved me.” You turn along your hip. Hvitserk sits up too, catching your ankle as you turn into a crawl. Clearly, you were going to leave if he didn’t catch you. None of your kicks could shake him off.

“Let go.” You whip around, smacking his hand.

The grip around your ankle tightens while he drags you back. “I do love you!” He shouts hiking you underneath his body in one smooth yank of his arm. Hvitserk’s body falls between your flying legs when his hands fell upon your wrists, ring still in hand. He drops down upon your body to squish you in place.

“Hvitserk– you’re heavy!”

“We love you… and that’s, that’s why you can’t leave. I need you to be my wife!” Hvitserk shouts all at once, desperate to catch your ear. It peaks your interest enough to peep over at him. It was easier to feel bad with Hvitserk than Ubbe. He could be unpredictable: a wild card.

“I’m not your toy?” You rasp out, pressing your hips up.

Hvitserk gawks. “Since when have you ever been my toy?” Hvitserk suggests.

When you threw looks in his direction– he was the first to come see why. When you wanted Ubbe and Margrethe– he brought them to you. And when Ubbe broke your heart, he was there too. It was the Hvitserk event. You could start out feeling so damn sure of yourself but… then,

“Never.”

Because Hvitserk loved you.

You agreed.

After all was said and done, today was your wedding day. It was Margrethe’s wedding day too. You wore a slight white dress, almost translucent, along with a crown of light white and pink buds. You dressed with Margrethe who was meticulous about the day. She was the bright, glowing gem in the middle of the show, but you were just as content to be marrying Hvitserk.

“Still avoiding me?” Behind you a distinctly deep voice trills. It doesn’t take a second thought for you to realize that it’s Ubbe, who shouldn’t be here. He should have been bathing for Margrethe. Instead he takes a few quick steps towards you. The more he took, the quicker he moved.

“Ubbe you shouldn’t be here. Margrethe and Hvitserk…” Your back hits a wall. His lip pulls down with creasing in his nose as if he could care less.

“Will fair fine without me. But I without you tonight…” Ubbe leans back, taking in the look of a new beautiful bride. Light make up, a fair gown kissing your curves and perfumed skin. It was for Hvitserk– who didn’t have to share you. He wouldn’t share you if you weren’t comfortable.

It didn’t set well with the oldest of sons. Not at all.


	20. Cheeky Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay... but boobies and chocolate, babe, listen.

“C’mon.”

“No, Hvitserk.”

You were baking your husband’s favourites. A fluffy batch of dark chocolate cookies for your anniversary dessert. Somehow you had to spice up your dessert a little, but Hvitserk had far more than that in mind. He plucked the dark chocolate morsels from the granite countertop.

“It’ll only be hot for a little bit.” Hvitserk hummed, winding his arms around your waist.

“You’re not pouring hot chocolate on me for dessert! Pick something else for dessert.” You mixed the chunky cookie dough, swiping your finger in the dough. You drawer your fingers back up to his lips. He slid his lips around your finger, swiping his tongue around your fleshy fingers to suckle off the sweetness.

“But what is better than chocolate? And you? It’s the perfect dessert.” He whines. Your needy boy was bound to whine about it a while longer— and despite how sticky it would be, you sighed.

“Fine, but no toppings. I’m not a sundae.” You reaches back to pinch his cheek.

“You don’t know,” Hvitserk slides his tongue by the side of his lower lip. “You could be a delicious one.”


	21. Another Shot

“(Y/N), are you in here?”

Hvitserk pushed in the door of your home after a light and premature dinner. Your usual seat beside Hvitserk was abandoned, and instead, you skipped dinner. He knew something was wrong. You might have missed breakfast, but never dinner. It was your favourite time to dote on him, feed him bits of pork and his favourite time to show you off.

“(Y/N)!”

There was blood. A lot of sticky blood dampening your thighs and streaming down in rivulets under your nightdress. You hadn’t expected him back so soon. Rather, a sobbing mess underneath furs, you had hoped for time to clean up. You pushed the furs off your body as he breached the open entrance to your room.

“You’re bleeding.” He said.

You slid your feet over the edge of the sheet covering your bed, nodding in agreement. “I… was pregnant.” You whispered in light puffs of air.

Hvitserk swallowed hard. His eyes coursed over the slight swelling of your stomach then the blood over your legs. How could he had missed it?

“I didn’t know.” He said, then dropped in the bed beside you. Those tiny words were all that you needed to boil over into sobbing, thrusting your hands around his neck.

“I’m sorry. I ruin—“ You cried out between wet sobs. “I ruined it.”

He hushed you. “Its okay, its… It’s not your fault. We can always try for another.”

Another shot to have a baby and yet— you were so afraid. You shuddered against his neck. Hvitserk dropped back onto the bed, reaching for a wet cloth in the middle to pat away the blood. Another soft kiss, “We can always try again.”


	22. Shaghaf

The palace was different from anything Hvitserk had ever seen. Blaring tiles of cobalt blue with alternating snowy marble sat under his peasantlike feet. It was contrasted by the white design of the palace doors above. The columns of the doorways weren’t just wide, but etched in designs so intricate he wondered whom would have the patience to etch them. Twirls here, little windows there… But what struck him, beside this dome shaped ballroom, was what awaited him at the end of it. Not the newly wedded couple, no, he ignored them.

A woman. Or at least, he thought it was a woman. Bjorn had told him of Halfdan’s accident. He was first caught by the look in her eyes. A pillow of limpid rosy fabrics, so light and soft, covered her long legs shifting across the marble floor to the jaunty beat of drums and stringed instruments.

“This way, this way.” An older man with a spiraled headdress led him to a pillow to the side of the fray. His oldest brother at the other side of him, Hvitserk bounced to his place. Here he had a perfect view of her. The rattle of beads on her hip and breast shifted alongside the pop of her hips as she glided like a goddess across the floor. As she came closer, Hvitserk followed every dip and shimmy with eager eyes drinking in her olive kissed skin. The food laid out of light and fluffy basmati rice and lamb was lost on him. Even the bread!

Her hands twirled outwards, adorned in heavy yellow gold, towards him. There were peculiar bumpy like designs he would later account to be henna on her hands. In shapes of flowers billowing across her palms and forearms. Then she shifted her arms towards the heavens where Odin surely was looking down at him, laughing at his impatience to touch. His fingers outstretched, barely skimming the gold woven ends of her skirts when she twirled her hands down, arching back as she did. She lightly kicked out, knocking his fingers with her jeweled foot and twirled back just like that. Large steps carried her back, her dark hair like storm clouds and a rosy veil hiding her piercing almond shaped eyes.

Impatiently he whined, and the King laughed at him. “This one is impatient!” He balked out his laugh at Bjorn. Bjorn set his hand to Hvitserk’s shoulder in his own laugh, clicking his tongue at Hvitserk as if he was Ragnar himself. Hvitserk gave a harsh growl.

“What is her name?” Hvitserk looked to the King. He glanced over her, then back to Hvitserk again.

“That is (Y/N).” The King said as her hips shimmied like the waves of the ocean. One collapsing another while her hands slid tauntingly over her head, grazing down her pointed nose. Her slender ring kissed fingers popped off of her lips, curling out towards Hvitserk. With a flick of her wrist, she motioned him closer.

“Go, boy, go.” The King teased with his dark eyes in glee, showing him on his way. Hvitserk didn’t need to be told twice. He hopped across the floor, led on as she shimmied her way back with wide steps and smaller, internal spirals of her torso.

“What is your name?” She said, her voice heavy with a foreign tongue. He didn’t care. If she could speak his language, that was all he needed. By Odin, even if she didn’t speak it, he would probably still be here. She twirled with her fingers along

“Hvitserk.” He said, coming closer. She stopped just in sight of the king.

“Hvitserk…” She said, chopping his name into bits and pieces. But he didn’t care. All he was interested in were her kohl lined eyes. Her hips kept a modest shimmy. “Would you like to learn to dance, Hvitserk?” She said lowly, lining his lips with her painted nail.

“Yes.” He answered like a babbling idiot, not even sure of what he was saying.

“Good.” The coins of her hips stopped. She leaned her toes to push at his boots, separating his legs one from the other. Her fingers drifted down in a line up his firm thighs. “Bend your legs, Habeebi.”

He bent.

“Good, good. Now, straighten your leg. But without letting your heel touch the floor. Think of a pulling of the leg to the hip.” She says, patting his legt. Hvitserk worked his hips slowly but found that it was harder than it looked, and fuck, it looked hard to begin with! From behind him, the King was chuckling. He threw out some words, loud and rippling through the hall when she threw some back. They must have been familiar with one another.

She hissed softly, grasping Hvitserk’s hands in her own. Her tongue clicked, “Slower. Ignore them, they’re fools.” She said, leading her hands to his thighs to guide the motion. It clicked slowly, and the more confident he grew, quicker the motion became. She hummed in approval for him, watching as his hips quipped.

Bjorn’s sassy whistle rung out, effectively dropping his hips again.

“You get distracted so easily. Here, let me be your shield, Viking.” She hums, dropping her hips in front of his. As she hides his body, she leads his hands to her waist, tickling the belly jewelry there. “Slowly first.” She reminds.

As slowly as he could manage, his hips shift, side to side. The curve of her hips is just barely out of touch against his, effortlessly shimmying coin and beads alike. One after another, her legs pop quicker and quicker against his, side to side with Hvitserk struggling to keep up. He could almost hear the laughs already, but yet again, she pulled him into focus. Her body arched back onto him, all the while shimmying, all the while the master of this dance. She rose one of her hands to his head, teasing him by and by until she simply stopped.

“That is how you dance!” She smiled. Yes, that was how he danced, but now he couldn’t deny the itch under his skin. Or as she pulled away, the blatant erection tenting his pants. Hvitserk groaned as she moved away, a laugh on her lips as she disappeared into the halls of the palace.

He never got to ask her to come home with him. But he would. He chased after her.


	23. No Shame

His brothers were all well and good– but sometimes, he just wanted to be away with his family. He arranged this date out in the forest by the Fjord. His beautiful wife prepped the heavily buttered bread and thick protein needed for the trip by the water while his little twins cared after pulling up fruit of the earth.

“Here is the spot!” His little boy darted ahead, sticking his foot into the ground where he marked they correct area to camp.

“Here?” Hvitserk looked around as you set out the blanket, collapsing with the bag at your waist. Your daughter Sisi darted ahead, leaping into Kattegat’s waters before you could tell her to take off her second layer of clothing. She couldn’t even swim, but she kept to the shallow end of the water. Behind her, the boy Sveinn jumped in, causing the splashing to pounce onto Hvitserk’s back.

“Ah! Be careful!” You say, leaning on the corners of the blanket. Like a child himself, Hvitserk couldn’t help himself from jumping in, dunking his son underwater. He quickly surfaced, punching at his father’s hands with little balled up fists.

“Hey!” He says, “You can’t do that to me– I’m special.”

Hvitserk laughs, waving through the dim waters. “So your mother says.” He teases as Sisi swims around Sveinn, hopping on top of him to dunk him in. Hvitserk turns toward you when Sveinn surfaces in a frustrated boil of bubbles.

“Come in (Y/N)!” Hvitserk calls. You were slowly fumbling with the laces to your dress, folding it in place before rising. You look around skeptically.

Svein speaks up first. “Come on Mother! Uncle isn’t here to spy.” He teases. Flustered you rush into the water, bopping him in the shoulder. He sways behind Hvitserk laughing, using him as a human shield.

“He does no such thing!” You exclaim.

Sisi giggles. “He does! He’s utterly hopeless.” She dips down into the water with only her eyes visible. You huff a little flustered as Hvitserk wound his arms around your waist, bobbing in the water with your back against his chest.

“It doesn’t matter! Father won the prize, didn’t I?” He swirls about, plain about his affections with little kisses against your neck.

“Yeah!” Sveinn chirps while Sisi giggles at your sputtering huff.

“Do you have no shame, Hvitserk?” You reprimand as Hvitserk sets one last kiss to your neck, sliding away into the waters and dragging Sisi under.

Nope, he had none.


	24. NSFW: Chantaje

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since he saw her face and two weeks since her taste was on his tongue. He could still taste the slick between her undulating hips on his face as he drank her up like the worst of love potions. The effects of her potent potion were a brewing storm cloud as Margrethe sat on his mocha couch, her lipstick staining the lip of a beer bottle.

“I don’t know why you take her back every time. Come back home with us, we’ll take care of you.” Margrethe says, hanging off his arm. Her silken lips pursed against the crest of his ear, whispering. “She’s using you for the sex.”

“Maybe so.” Hvitserk says, swigging his drink around in his cheeks before swallowing. “But she’s the only woman for me.” He hiccups.

The sound of the doorbell shred through the living room, combined with the silken ‘knock, knock,’ just as the door opened. Hvitserk jumped out of his skin as she pressed into the home, eyes narrowing when she caught sight of it: Hvitserk cuddling on the couch with his ex-fling Margrethe. His heart ran races, pumping and circulating blood with every stalk of your boots dragging across the floor.

He wasn’t doing anything with Margrethe. In the same way though, he felt the heavy weights of guilt dragging his head down. He couldn’t look up to you when you stopped between the coffee table and the couch. Instead focusing on your slick black boots, words died on his lips.

“You.” Your manicured fingers snap at Margrethe. “Out.”

Margrethe was going to fight it, he knew. She bit back with something just as spicy when Hvitserk interrupted. “Get out Margrethe.” He whispers. Angrily the blonde in the room storms out of the room in a flurry, snatching up her purse and throwing a curse behind her shoulder. Moments passed with your figure as still as a stone statue. Your hands formed confident balls on your hips.

“Look up.” You say. “Look up, Hvitserk.”

So he does, scanning his eyes over the slight jean miniskirt you wore underneath a strappy black top. It’s a suffocating sight, snuffing the breathe out of his mouth when you lift up your foot and jam it on his knee. Underneath that tiny jean skirt, he could make out the black lace of your meager panties contrasting against your thighs.

“What did she do to you?” You lean in to cup his jaw. Your foot slides off his knee, instead trading the position by sliding down over his lap, scratching the lace against his deep blue jeans. Beading of tears had gathered around the corners of his eyes, overflowing in a single sweep of lines down his well-fed cheeks.

“Nothing.” He lies.

You slide further up his lap, arms wound around his neck now. You dig your hands into his honeylike hair, loosening the lazy bun that held his hair altogether atop his head. The strands fall around his soulful eyes against trim sideburns.

“Ah… comiendo tus oidos.” You slur, with a hand mimicking a mouth moving. He knows that look. The one where you were ready to leave by the shifting of your hips off his lap. His hand thrusts out to catch your hips, sliding them against his own for incentive to stay. He was always offering himself as incentive to stay. You came for a reason. The cock twitching itself to life underneath his pants was reason enough. Hvitserk purposefully shifted your hips down against his hardness.

“Don’t go. I need you.” Hvitserk breathes, hot and heavy. “I need my fix.”

It was two weeks. Two long and agonizing weeks of counting down the days, the hours and moments he spent jerking himself off by the lube that had a semi-fixed placement by his nightstand.

“Take out your cock.” You demand, shifting your hips back. Hvitserk quickly unbuckles his jeans, pushing them to pool at his ankles as he slid out his dick. The length of his cock is painted with a protrusion of his veins, up to the ridge of his pink mushroom like head. Your tongue slides over the lower lip of your lipstick.

“Were you good for her?” You ask, leaning down to your knees below him. Hvitserk’s eyes follow your movement down, unable to hide the excitement that leaves his cock begging for a touch. The precum drools at the tip of his cock.

“No…” Hvitserk whispers, his fingertips twitching and twisting by his sides. He’s itching to go, to see you, to touch you. But he knows better. If he touches, he’ll lose it all.

“No?” Your hands slam down on his sinewy thighs, drool sliding from your lips over the sensitive tip. The drool slid its way down the shaft and with one of your hands, you work the saliva over his shaft. “Why not? Don’t you want to fuck her pretty pussy, Hvitserk? I’m sure she’d scream just for you. For the time being, anyway.”

Hvitserk shakes his head, his breath sharpening with every thrust of your fingers over his shaft. He hikes in his breath when you squeeze him, twirling your hand about to rub your thumb over the corona at the junction of both head and shaft.

“I don’t hear you.” You let your other hand drift lower, massaging his ball sack in your other hand. He cuts off a moan, leaning his hips into your hand. Seconds later your hand leaves his balls and comes down on his hip in a loud, rippling crack.

“No!” He winces, his hip pulsing hot by your palm. A strange feeling of knots form in his lower belly as he speaks. “You’re all I can think about.”

“I bet I am.” You retort, leading both hands back to his cock. One leads the way, spiraling up his cock while the other followed up. It was a toss up to him– what you might give, but more what you might take. You would give him anything, take him anything. Anything you wanted.

“I didn’t fuck herrr…” Hvitserk moans, his nails scratching at the seating. You hum in agreement as he drops his head back, doing all he can to stay like a good boy. You liked good boys. He hisses out breath when your tongue shifts flatly along his head, sucking on the crown of his cock. You slide your tongue across the slit, flicking tickling licks over the duct.

You pop off just as quickly. “Are you sure you didn’t fuck her?” You say. Your hand migrates up his chest under his shirt, raking through honey brown fuzz on his chest. He nods, hands now tight around the cushions

“Tell me why.”

A sudden pain rips through his chest, burning like a hot sting of a papercut. He quickly realizes your nails have raked down his chest and brought blood to the surface of the skin. Where other men would have cursed their women out, Hvitserk’s lips parted into an ‘o’ delightfully. His whimpering cock is at a lack for attention with only your hand flicking across its shaft. Enough to keep him on the edge, but enough for him to long for more.

“I want you to be mine.” He mutters, low in expecting the storm that is brewing. Like something spring loaded, you hop up from the space of his legs to straddle him. Before he could take it, you forced his cock into your cunt. He bottoms out with a shatter of a scream, eyes betraying that scream with delight. Instead you hike up his shirt over his head, twisting the thick fabric and tossing it to the side. In an instant, one of your hands snuffs the breath out from his lips with a hold so tight on his throat, Hvitserk could barely breathe. The other yanks his hair back so that he has no option but to look into your eyes.

“You will have what I give you. Nobody owns me, pet, or my body.” You say, your hips shifting up the length of his cock in a sharp stoccato against your words. Hvitserk’s muscles tighten, denying himself the pleasure of bucking up into your warm walls. The way your cunt oozes for him he swears it cries out for him to do what he’s always wanted, to make you his. But he can’t. He knows the ramifications that has. He settles for dipping his hips up cautiously– flinching as you puff out breath into his face.

“Mm!” Hvitserk says in acknowledgement, gasping for air when you release him. Your pace quickens, sliding him out and in, out and in like nothing more than a fucktoy. His fingers cringe forced to do nothing but idly wait by.

“Good boy.” You lift your hands to lead Hvitserk’s against the round of your ass. He grunts appreciatively for the movement, pushing you down with every thrust up into your body. Finally letting himself go, his lips part in a chant of your name as he sunk into your pussy. Your heels scratched over his bare legs along the ground, pushing him further to the edge when you felt him gasp– obviously horrified by the act, pleasure shredding through him as he dipped his head against your chest. He ducks away as his seed splashes through your walls prematurely. His thrusts slowed and before he was ready– you lifted off with the dripping of his heavy seed out of your pussy.

“What a mess you made! And without permission–” You shove him back. Hvitserk’s head drapes against a pillow, now laying horizontally when you straddled over his face, grinding the union of seed and slick over his cheek. “Clean it up.”

It was always his favourite part– sliding his hands around your thick legs to eat his essence out. More than a punishment, it was a reward for his one and only goddess. He lapped his own seed out of your folds, dipping his tongue into your cunt to finish off licking out his cum. It was different here. Your cries were unabashed with no one to watch you, grinding over his face. His face is ruined, the stickiness sticking to his facial hair when you pull away, cumming not once, but twice over his face. “I love you.” You whisper as he finishes. His face is sopping wet, but he doesn’t care. He smiles instead. Come morning, he knew Sigurd would be back to pick you up and this game of fighting to be your only would carry on.


	25. Family Life

Your meticulous sewing was frustrated at best. With every little inch that you got, it felt like you took steps back. You pull your needle back through your husband’s overtunic, flipping the needle in your hand. Your home was empty despite the thrall beside you making dinner. The air of silence had sat over the home for months since Hvitserk left. At the mention of a raid, he leapt to board a boat for the nearest way out of Kattegat.

Who could blame him?

“Ah… Freydis?” You call to your thrall. She lifts her head from the crackling fire, having flipped a warm bread and looks to you.

“Yes?” She smiles.

A beautiful infectious smile. Freydis was a young woman of your age… perhaps a few years older, you weren’t sure. But she had a child of her own that served in the home alongside her. It was all good and well with you, but the sight of the young toddler ached at your heart. You pat a chair beside you, motioning for her to come over. As she sits, you lean a hand on her lap.

“Hvitserk and I want a child but the gods have closed my womb. If… you were willing, I hoped you might give me one of my husband’s sons.” You ask of her.

Ask being a light, polite way of imploring her to do it. After all, she had no rights. She could do this for you– or die. But Freydis knew you wouldn’t do that to her. You would mope as you had. Cry as you had been. Scorn the gods in drunken fits like just the other day.

“Of course. But… but master wouldn’t want that. You’ve changed him. He only wants you.” Freydis says. You snort, reaching for a mug of your drink. You quickly down it, causing Freydis to grimace. Oh gods.

“I’ve caused him to leave me for the raids, glory, gold and the bitches he’ll probably seed.” You lament, sinking down into your chair with pitiful kicks of your feet.

“My lady… that isn’t it at all!” Freydis stands up, whirling around you as you cry out. “He is a Viking. He raids.”

You shake your unkept hair, huffing drunkenly. “He will bring back a foreign whore to marry and just you see! I’ll be spinning for a living just as quickly as he comes home.”

As you wail, Freydis glances between her child that comes doddling over to stare at your pained and parted lips. You were distraught. Any woman would be, should be… but one to a prince? She knew it was likely.

“He loves you.” Freydis consoles, swiping up her young child to set in the lap of your heavy skirts. Just like magic, your sniffling stills under the little girl’s weight. She stands up, leaning over to stare at you as you cry with her little head snapping from mother– to you– then to her mother again.

“Is this how she’s been all summer?”

In the doorway of the house, Hvitserk pulls the door to a close. The frosty winds snarl in behind him as he brushes off his furs, moving inside the house. Somewhere along the way he’d picked up a bit of Freydis’s flatbread to eat.

“I’m afraid so.” Freydis says meekly, running cold when the toddler flops off of your lap to doddle her way to Hvitserk. He lurches the little girl up into his arms, balancing her in one and walking behind you. You’ve thrown your head back over the head of the chair in your dramatics.

“(Y/N).” Hvitserk calls your name, his head tilted down to look at you with unamused eyes.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t bring a whore home with me.” Hvitserk remarks, letting his other hand bat at the back of your head, lifting your head up so that your long locks wouldn’t spill over the floor. You snort as if it was a miracle. It was to you. The way he left, you almost expected it. You hadn’t spoken very much in months since Hvitserk revealed he was trying his hardest to impregnate you. Days of constant sex scratching the floorboards and keeping his cock deep within your womb.

“If you won’t have children this year… I’m going to raid.” He said in as you both sat in a passionless bed, waiting for the next day to come. You didn’t say a thing.

Your arms fold one over another. “Then you are stupid.” You snap.

“Maybe we have been.” Hvitserk grins as he lowers onto a knee, the child still tightly locked onto his chest. Freydis collapses back into her chair almost too exhaustively from a long days work, echoing her exhaustion through the home. You sigh and look away to the child in his arms.

“Yes. We have been a stupid.” You concede, smiling warmly. “But all families are.”


	26. Appearance

When the boys were drunk, they were also stupid. You had only heard of some of the stupid games they played, but once they discovered a game played by their father, it was completely different. They came to you with the second of Aslaug’s four sons bearing a bloody gash. You hold the door open as Ubbe and Bjorn drag their young brother inside your home. Sigurd grabs the door behind you, and you go deeper within the house to prepare a bed.

“I do not know why that game seemed like such a good idea Prince Ubbe.” You roll your eyes. The boys were well acquainted with you, but you still saw it fit to give them proper titles.

“It isn’t as if he can feel it anyway.” Ubbe looks to the dripping red wound the side of Hvitserk’s head. The blood dribbles down from the side of his head, across his prickly jawline. The Ragnarssons set their brother down on the furs a tad bit less than gently, making the bed buckle.

“No soulmate. No problems.” Hvitserk chides drunkenly, dropping his head back on the plush furs as you click your tongue in partial annoyance. The blood would smear over good furs. For a Prince, though, you had to put up with him as annoying as it was.

“Men.” You mutter, rocking the bed underneath you as you straddle it. As you begin to wipe away a bit of blood from his face, Hvitserk jerks.

“What are you doing?” You say, examining the wound. It would need stitching… and it’s a good thing he can’t feel pain, because it is an impressive gash. That was until Hvitserk hissed at you. Ubbe learns closer, looking at you with a tilt of his head and a clearly skeptical look in his eye.

“That hurts.” He shrills.

You stutter unintelligibly.

“What? That’s impossible. Stop saying such things.” You say, reaching for alcohol to hand to him. But when you look back, he is almost shaking under what you perceive pain. A deep, keening wail spills in through the rooms when you hush him, your hands flying to the side of his head.

“Hold him still.” You hiss, sliding your thumb over his wound. jorn sets one of his bear like hands on Hvitserk’s shoulder to pin him back in place. The fiborous strings of tissue pull themselves back together, the sight of gnarly blood giving away to the pale skin of Hvitserk’s normal skin. Then in seconds, your hands pull back altogether. The side of his head is perfect, almost like new by the touch of a soulmate.

“Oh by Freyja.” You mumble, letting your hands come up over your eyes. Hvitserk’s jarred eyes are spread wide, laving his lip with his tongue. In the corner of the room, Sigurd saunters over.

“…it seems you will have problems now, Hvitserk.”


	27. Both is Good

He got into another fight. The prince had toyed with him, running him in circles while you watched. Amused, annoyed, confused. There were many things that could explain the range of emotions that soared down your spine. How could he do this to you?

“Stop pretending like you care who has a crush on me.” You pull him by his arm, further and further away from the campground. Hvitserk squirmed in his the grip along the collar of his overtunic, whipping around with a twist of his torso under your wrist. A pang of pain coursed through your wrist, making your hand snap back. Hvitserk took the moment to bend his knees, lifting you up with his hands pressed on the underside of your ass. Your hands flew behind his neck for stability, instinctually winding your legs around his waist like it was second nature.

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asks, leaning close.

“Because you aren’t good for me. You sleep with Margrethe.” You point out. It wasn’t uncommon of a man to. After all, they were expected to sleep around before marriage, but no one talked about the double standard that Hvitserk was currently exercising now.

“Huh. I sleep with you too. You enjoy it.” He chuckles, your back hitting along a firm tree trunk. Blood coursed down Hvitserk’s boyish features, bitter like copper on your tongue as he kissed you. His hands were somewhere up your smooth legs, hiking your skirts shamefully close to your soaked folds.

You couldn’t deny that you loved it. “I keep asking myself whether its better to love you, or hate you.” You murmur, finding yourself pinned between the large arching tree and Hvitserk himself. He pressed his hips to yours to pin you in place while his hands busied themselves with more important ventures, sliding your dress down to your waist.

“Both. It’s more interesting that way.” He laughs warm-heartedly.

Both…. Both could be good.


	28. Eat it All!

Hvitserk was known to eat many wild things. He could eat honey, seaweed, juniper berries and even hazelnuts. He could eat mushrooms too, lots and lots of mushrooms, even wild. That was where the problem lay.

“Did you really do it again?” Your hands formed balls on your hips as Hvitserk lay on your bed. You gathered him up in the forest where you found him and had brought him here on your back. He was drooling lightly over your furs, the bout of stomach cramps having left his system.

“Maybe.” He laughed a deep, hearty laugh.

You came to sit beside him, petting down the long skirts that draped over your legs. “Why would you eat them without letting me see?” You ask.

Hvitserk stretched out, rolling onto his hip. His hands would reach out, missing the top of your head entirely in his attempt to grab your cheek. With a sigh, you lead his hand to where it was intended to go.

“Because beautiful Freyja, I can!” He slurs. “It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

Your eyes roll. “I am not Freyja.”

Hvitserk snorts. “You are Freyja! Wait… wait until I tell Ubbe. He has a Margrethe but I have THE Freyja. He will be so surprised.” Before you can really help it, Hvitserk dips in with clumsily, placing a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

“Nope… not quite,” You lead his jaw to tilt all so slightly, leaning your lips against his for a sticky kiss. His lips tasted like… mushrooms weren’t the only things he had eaten.


	29. Veritas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter au.

Your best friend had a crush. A harmless little thing that perhaps had you more than a little jealous of Miss Margrethe. But like a good and loyal friend, and a Slytherin, you wanted nothing more than to help Hvitserk get what he wanted.

“If we get caught, it’s all on you (Y/N). He’ll notice it missing from his stores!” Hvitserk whispers sharply, rounding the table in his slick black uniform. His yellow and alternating black tie was neat on his chest despite the fact that it was late at night.

“Oh please, the fools won’t even notice this or the antidote missing.” You respond.

You flickered a Jabberknoll feather between your fingers, tossing it into a brewing cauldron as you followed along the recipe for Veritaserum. You were highly skilled at potions and even more than that– sneaking about. You had been all month to finish this potion. The potion brewed smoothly and before long, you could pluck up your dragonheart wand to finish it off. Hvitserk sat in his chair like a guilty dog, glaring into the visceral liquid when you finally smirk in glee. The potion had turned limpid.

“Perfect.” You hum, taking the contents of the potion into a few glass containers.

“Uh!” Hvitserk said all of a sudden, lurching over to the potion. “Shouldn’t you try it first? To make sure it… it works?”

“Have me try it before giving it to Margrethe?” You snort, hopping on top of the table. Your thin skirt flutters apart as you slide one leg over another. You motion him to give you a few drops of the liquid, and as he does, you feel almost no different.

“So ask me something?” You fold your arms over your green tie.

He slides beside you, running his hand up the grey stockings that covered precious skin from his view. As his hand reaches your mid-thigh, you smack his knuckles sharply. No one touched you like that and not even Hvitserk would without you begging him for it.

Which you probably would– if he didn’t have his eye on Margrethe.

“Touch me again and I’ll gut you.” You threaten with your hand atop of the wand.

“Do you love me? Like… like Ubbe and I love Margrethe?” He asks. He alternates his hands on either side of the table to box you in. His face wears a bright, teasing smile. Better yet, its one you see Ivar wear in the early mornings in the Slytherin common room. It clicks for you.

“Yes, I love you.” You blurt out, incapable of hiding it past the potion’s effects.

He hovers closer, tilting his head slightly to the side as his lips descend upon yours. It’s a chaste, gentle kiss at first when your hand comes up along his jaw to keep him in place. Your lips sloppily returned his kiss, clearly untrained. Hvitserk doesn’t care– his fingers dig between the space of your thighs to spread them apart. Willful legs spread and he takes up the space between them, pushing your back down on the thick wooden table.

“I can’t believe you would listen to Ivar.” You mumble against his lips while breaking the kiss. Your thumb slides across Hvitserk’s lips, brushing past the wily pieces of hair that made up his mustache. “You fooled me. Do you know how jealous I was?”

Hvitserk dipped his hands down along your curves. “It was cute.”


	30. Keys

Keys.

It could be as simplistic as iron or luxurious as gold. Either way one cut it, keys were an entrance to something. As a young woman you always saw the women of households carrying them around on their bitty waists like something of pride. A pride you envied.

“Take them, wife.”

Hvitserk’s pale palm offered up bright keys. Most often one could assume that raiding was the source of the glitter bright keys, but you knew better. This gold was pure and refined, likely from the trader that brought you from the middle east to Kattegat well intended as a harem girl for another man.

“He stole her under my nose!” The old man proclaimed about you to Aslaug.

“Did he?” She acted daft as if she just couldn’t believe his words. Both of you knew that it was a complete and utter lie as well. He meant to take you.

“Would you like a bit of mead?” His mother’s lips curled into a wicked smile, mirroring the playfulness of her eyes.

That was all he heard on the issue.

“Oh… okay.” You say awkwardly.

Your deep ochre fingers swept the keys up from his palms. Hvitserk would walk behind you, winding his hands around the small of your waist to a small belt that pulled your waist in. There was a beautiful clip that kept the keys to your body. His nose nuzzles up against a few springy twists while you take up the keys to pop the lock back off of the house. It wasn’t just a pop of a lock. No, it was more than that.

“Did I break you?” He teases through the tense air he can almost taste on the tip of his tongue. He knew this moment would be emotionally trying at the least and heart shattering sad at the most. What he couldn’t perceive were the tears that creased down the round of your cheeks. He reaches up to brush them away when you abruptly do it yourself.

“I’m fine!” You say, tinted by your native tongue. A tongue that is rooted in the deep middle east, but kissed by every word your mother spilled from her lips. Kissed by the hot sun of Africa and its warm sands that waved far away.

“It’s just…” You start, ashamed to go on. “I never imagined this would be… would be me. Marrying a prince… being presented these keys to our home.”

Hvitserk quirks his head to the side while you attach the keys to your belt and compose yourself. He had been approached before about marrying a foreigner. But many people did! There were less women in Kattegat these days, and if he was being honest, he couldn’t imagine a better bride.

“Why wouldn’t you be my bride, hm? Don’t tell me because of Margrethe again.” He turns you, grasping your waist and lifting you up into the air.

“Hvitserk!” You squeak.

“You clean my wounds, you take care of my home and you cook the most delicious things for me– You’ve always been my wife. Now you have my title.” Hvitserk twirls round and round, spinning on the heels of his feet until he comes to a stop, popping open the door of your new home to step inside. With a quaking slam, it closes back behind him.

Finally you can truly call this home, your home, not the home of your master Hvitserk.


	31. To the Victor!

Apart from the sexual nature of Hvitserk’s drinking; there was another reason you hated it when he got drunk. He said stupid things. So many stupid things that you weren’t sure how he got away with it if not for his handsome face.

“Since we both have a want for children in our hearts brother, let’s make a wager.” Hvitserk paces down the table from where you sat towards Ivar, his thumb looped on his belt. The other hand kept his mead.

“Of what?” Ivar asks dully.

“On whose woman will have more. The prize will go to the victor.” Hvitserk turns to wink at you with his eyes glistening. Your lips part into shock as your hands push up on the table. Ivar gives a bemused smile at the suggestion.

“Oh no you won’t! And if you touch me and I’ll gut you.” You shoot a dark glare at Ivar. Livunn had just begun to walk upright while your twins were still infants. Of course you wanted more children, but you were unsure the number. He wasn’t about to throw this on you too!

“You have three children already. You want how many babies exactly?” Ivar snickers at your threat, still level minded as he drank. With Ivar your concern was completely different. For his honor, he would probably take on this pissing contest with his brother.

“Yes how many exactly do you think you’ll have?” You move to his side, hands forming balls on your hips. Hvitserk’s lips curl into a deep smile, staggering to face you.

“More than he.” He downs his drink and slides your hips closer. His lips purse to whisper the softest words, letting his brother take in the sight of your long, soft legs. His stare quickly became uncomfortable when Hvitserk lifts your ass onto the heavy wooden table, throwing your skirts to the side as he nestled between the apex of your thighs. Ivar’s eyes flutter over as Hvitserk pushes you back, giggling when your eyes caught Ivar’s half lidded ones.

“I’ll take your bet brother, but know you’ll lose.”


	32. Everywherre You Go

Wherever he went, he was yours. He knew the fact as much as you claimed it– and meant it. His brothers may have teased how he was a piece of ass to the great Earl (Y/N) but it was true. That meant any inch that he moved out of line, you would somehow find out about it. It made no difference where he was. So seeing your banner of falcon feathers thwapping in the salty air of Kattegat’s shores? No good.

Especially no good that when you landed– you ignored his brothers. You ignored his brothers, his mother (with a polite introduction of course) and stomped through Kattegat longer than he could hide. Perhaps the placement was no good either, thrusting him off his chair in the great hall and flicking it aside.

“(Y/N)–” One of the brothers called out to you. Ubbe, probably. Your eyes were fixed on Hvitserk, who laid flat on his ass on the ground with his legs bent slightly. His head tilted on the ground, knowing worse would come. Your boot pressed down upon Hvitserk’s crotch to keep him pinned down, standing over him while your eyes hooded darkly. The tension was evident in your browline as you hissed down to your guilty looking puppy.

“I heard you went raiding with Bjorn.” You hiss. “And I also heard,” You dip down, dragging Hvitserk up by the tight braiding along his head. “That you fucked some newfound thralls.”

Hvitserk’s lips purse, wrinkling his lips and the slight moustache just above. His eyes read as guilty as they focus down low, glancing over the cleavage poking out from your armour. With no response, you shook him harshly.

“Did you fuck them or not?!” You snarl, his head bobbing until you caught his cheeks in your fingers. His sideburns give you a familiar, pleasant tickle. But you won’t be distracted by those sweet eyes or how his hands came over your hips as you squatted over him.

“Maybe.” He admits, giving an ‘oof!’ as you sat down upon him. You shove him back, slapping him in the face hard enough that his head clicks– and a familiar groan slips out of his lips. Not one of annoyance or pain, but a pleased, deep chuckle that warms your blood. Your hands find the neck of his overtunic, taking his shirt apart in a loud ripping motion of the seaside blue fabric. It gives away easily in your hands– and you push him back, eyes glancing over to Ubbe who sits with his mead in his hand and watches your hands travel down lower and lower, peeling his trousers just to his knees. His eyes avert back as you settle beside him, drooling over his tip. You work the saliva over his cock in a pump of your fist around his shaft.

“Wherever you go Hvitserk… you’re my bitch. It would be wise for you to remember that.”

You said that everytime… and everytime? He conveniently forgot.


	33. Bread Thieves

Feeling a tickle of fingers by your side, you popped the hand inching forward. Hearing a sharp grunt of pain, you realized that it wasn’t little Alva or Ase inching their fingers around the honey covered bread, but Hvitserk’s fingers inching about your waist.

“O-Oh! Hvitserk!”

“Hello to you too, fuck. Why did you do that for?” Hvitserk huffed– irked with his hands snapping away from your waist.

“Love, I thought you were the children.” You’d say, flipping around to face Hvitserk.

“You pop our children like that? That hurt…” Hvitserk pouts, wiggling his otherwise unaffected fingers at you. You laid a soft kiss atop of his knuckles, when there’s a loud clatter of wood against the floor– and the soft giggles of children saying “Go, go, go!”

Hvitserk’s lips light up into a bright cheeky smile as you whipped around, finding no bread on the table– or on the floor. Only the plate in which you cooked. He chuckles lowly when you turn around, smacking his hip sharply.

“Go get YOUR children.” You shrill.

“They’re yours as well.” Hvitserk picks up the plate and glances to the doorway where giggles spill into the home. You throw a cloth at his intricate braids, shrieking:

“Go!


	34. Good Shot

Silvery furs were pulled tight around your neck as you stood waiting for your husband by Kattegar’s shore. Your one… and only daughter bounds around like a rabbit, side to side.

“Do you see your father yet?” Your arms held tight around a bundle in your arms. A newborn… young, with a soft face sheltered from Kattegat’s cool winds in blankets and furs. Your cheeks are cold to the touch by chilly winds. It was late for the raiding party to come home. You were thankful that Skadi had taken such wellcare of the winter so that the men could come back into Kattegat’s harbor.

“He’s right there!” Her tiny fingers points, zipping through the crowd. You follow after her, bouncing with a recurve in her fingertips. You spot your sweet husband barely stepping off of the boat, straightening his furs when your daughter zips straight for him, ramming into his legs.

“Father!” She exclaims.

“Kyi!” He picks her up, high on his chest as he moves toward you. You wait with a shameless ear to ear smile, awaiting your favourite part of coming home. There’s always the rush of excitement when he comes home, the beating of your heart like a quick beat of drums and most of all, you feel breathless already. There’s something special about your husband– you never had this feeling before him. He bends down to catch your lips with his hand against the back of your head to pull you against him. You clumsily move forward, your son in your arms nudged against his firm chest. A smooth and everdeepening kiss, but one that felt like forever when you gently push him back by his shoulder.

“Stop it Hvitserk,” You rise a hand to fan yourself.”I just gave birth and I don’t mean to be pregnant again.”

“I wouldn’t complain.” Hvitserk grins. “You look delicious pregnant.”

“I’m not your snack.” You shoot back.

“Stop it!” Kyi complains, limp against her father’s chest. Hvitserk looks down to her and laughs, apologizing profusely for ignoring his little princess. He is begrudgingly forgiven– but then his eyes shift over your chest to the boy in your arms. He courses the little boy’s plump cheeks and button nose, eyes shut tight so that he could not see his eyes. He had a bright grin on his lips– more than you ever had seen him coming home.

“Is it…” He starts.

“A boy.” You finish.

Hvitserk laughs heartily, tossing Kyi into the air. “A brother!” He says as she comes back down, nuzzling her nose with his. “You have a brother!”

Sassy as she was, Kyi snaps back. “I knew that! Let’s go!!!” Hvitserk laughs, of course she knew that, she was not the one raiding and pillaging. But as a child, he knew that she was just needy for attention at this age. He looks into her arms, finding there was a darkly wooden bow with the white plumes that made up its butt sticking out from its holding place.

“Kyi, what is that in your arms?” Hvitserk sets her down as you all make it into the heart of Kattegat’s square.

“It’s a bow!” She squeals.

“Can you show me how to use it?” He bends down to her level. She shows him a rune encrusted bow and threads the string with an arrow. For weeks now she has been planning for this one moment. She aims, legs spread with an even stance– and seconds later the arrow embeds in the head of the dummy in the square. Hvitserk makes a rippling shriek of glee, bouncing up to inspect her work.

“Bam!” She clenches her fist. “Mama showed me how to shoot and Ubbe made me a thing!”

Hvitserk jerks the arrow out of its place, “You were perfect, little shieldmaiden! Would you like to train with me?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” She squeals, running circles around him with her bow and arrow in hand. Your face drops– fearful for what that could mean for your daughter. She was so young. So tiny, but the way that she looked at Hvitserk in awe and love? You couldn’t say no. Of course she wanted to train with him. She wanted to be just like him– however she could.


	35. NSFW: Little Baker

You heard all sorts of things about the Northmen. Strange men with axe and shield that bore a strange way of fight. Your husband used to tell you all the time about the sort of warriors they had– and now, you were about to see it upclose. Like you always… were curious about. Enough to learn their tongue off the back of a strange traveler. The door was buckling as they rammed forward, shoulder and chest. Your hand slapped over your mouth as you crawled around the counters. The huge lock on the door buckled forward, men and women spilling into the bakery where you worked. The adjoining household was technically yours, too.

“It’s a bakery!” You recognized the tongue, peeping out to the side. A slender thing sprung in and ambled to the shelf where you kept your breads arranged for sale. Glancing on the other side of your table, a broad blonde kept his hands on his belt, swinging his axe impatiently.

“We came all this way for bread?” The bigger one scratched his beard.

“There’s more. Look around.” The slender one said, taking a giant bite of the hard shell of the bread. It gave a crunch as it gave away, and your hands shook underneath the table. Between slender and thick– you weren’t sure which was better. You reached your fingers on top of the table, fishing for your bread knife when there was a harsh smash of your fingers– and you squealed in pain.

“There’s a girl. Did you think you could hide?” The bigger man squished your knuckles in his hand, dragging you up for the slender one to see. He set down his bread, making his way around the table to point his sword at you.

“Give her here! I haven’t had her flavour.” He said. He dropped you into the slender man’s arms, who whirled in a circle before shoving you up against the floured surface of your counter. To his shock– you didn’t scream nearly as much as you should have.

“Maybe she’s in shock, Hvitserk.” The bigger of the two said. Hvitserk– as you learned his name was, tossed up your blue skirts over your ass, pressing up the cotton laced edges toward the bow on your waist.

“Fuck! She’s soaked!” Hvitserk’s fingers spread apart your cunt, lips glistening in excitement for the foreigner. Life here was too boring– too simple. How would it be to have sex with a Northman?

The older of the two men ambled around, spreading your ass with huge palms while Hvitserk suckled on one of your lips before the other. His tongue coursed past your inner lips, teasing you with zigg-zagging strokes and prodding your entrance. His meaty fingers prodded your clit, rubbing tantalizing circles around it. Your thighs were already soaked– but when you felt him like this? You were practically oozing. The larger man pulled your hips just so slightly where you weren’t shoved into the ledge, his bloodied fingers sliding into your entrance. First one– but as the pleasure mounted, you rocked onto his fingers.

“She likes that, Bjorn!” Hvitserk alternated to your front, crouching while his lips pursed against your clit. You knew it was coming– but the wonderful way that he sucked your clit elicited a sharp scream to fall from your lips. Your breath hitched, coming out in sharp uneasy patterns. Pleasure was welling tight, curling up in your stomach and threatening to explode under Hvitserk’s flickering tongue drawing circles around your clit. Bjorn’s fingers caressed your walls, sliding another digit in after. Your hips thrusted down upon him, riding Bjorn while squeezing Hvitserk’s body between your legs.

“Agh! Agh! Aggh!” You squealed, gushing down Bjorn’s meaty fingers in your cunt. Your orgasm caused a buckle of your hips, gasping out each second between the large and small man until uninevitably, you slouched. Hvitserk caught you by the hips with a wide grin– you never had anyone eat you out before. Face to face with him, his eyes were about as playful as his actions.

“I might just keep you.” Hvitserk grinned, loosening his belt. Shyly– you smile.

“I’d like that.”


	36. NSFW: An Easy Out

Creeeeaaaak! Tap– tap– tap.

Hold your breath, don’t make a move. It was a game to these men of foreign lands. He specifically enjoyed everything about this– the chase, the breeding, spreading their seed and conquering lands. The footsteps were rippling closer and closer. Their foreigns tongues clicked together as you held on tight to the planks that surrounded you just under them– one step closer through the tunnel running underneath the palace. You swallow hard at a little cackle.

“Come out… come out… It’s much easier if you don’t fight me!” You heard the too chipper voice of the heathen pacing above you. His boots rattle the planks just above you. Then with a shallow clack of his boot– you knew you were fucked. Your breath shudders just as you look up, finding through the thin cracks that allowed light to stream in, also reveal what lay below. The planks here sounded significantly different from those in the rest of the vast room, but you had a feeling he didn’t need that to know you were there.

Your coins suspend in space as you stop moving completely, barely clinking on your neck and hips both. You cursed your love for such gaudy displays in between sheer fabrics. With a fat crack, the man’s blade careens through the planks, the shock of which rippled a blood curdling squeal out of your lips. The blade sliced your arm just so slightly– but more importantly, impacted the ground in front of you.

“(Y/N)…!” The man shrills, bending the sword like a shovel to flick the flimsy boards loose. “I found you!”

He rips the boards from your view, dipping inside despite your painted nails digging into his skin protesting him pulling you out. You hit the ground with a groan as he rips you from your hiding place, looking you up and down repeatedly.

“Hvitserk…” You whimper, turning on your ass to face him all ashake.

“You thought you could leave me?” He rumbles. You drag yourself back farther away from him despite the movement of the lithe man. He stops in front of you, nudging your legs apart with his boot. You were well accustomed to him. His size, his shape and his taste. Even though it’s been a few years, you still have the memory of his taste etched onto your tongue.

“You look even more expensive than the first time. Whose dick did you suck, hmm?” He laughs teasingly deep– but it quickly turns dark. Hateful. As if he resents you for leaving Kattegat, for leaving him. He crouches low on his knees, swiping your bare ankle out from underneath thin white and gold threaded skirts.

Your nails dig deep against the floorboards as he drags you out in a rustle of your bangles toward a rug with fluffy pillows. Your head hits the board with a little bit of a clack– and when you come out of the shock that leaves stars in your eyes, you realize that his tongue is caressing across your exposed midriff over the thin golden chain that drapes over your belly. Your hands catch his braids as you stop him from disappearing between your legs. You know the effect he has on you– how desperate he makes you for a taste of his seed. You can’t get hooked again!

“Noo.” You whimper, finding that something snaps within him. He snatches your hands in his, reaching for an abandoned cloth to wind around your wrists behind your back. Then as he turns you back, you feel him snarling.

“You’re just a prize from war.” Hvitserk hisses. “What choice do you have?”

Hvitserk settles down back between your legs, angrily shoving your thighs over his shoulders as he dips down. It was this feeling you ran from. The bittersweet pleasure that came as Hvitserk flattened his tongue against your folds, lapping the smooth skin of your lips. He loved to eat of you– never failing to suck each lip and draw his tongue around them to warm you up. As if you needed him to with the burning ache that labelled you his whore. You always were his whore– always would be. You gasp as he upturns his face, his tongue tracing intertwined ovals in the shape of jormungandr against your cunt. You were so weak for him, groaning true moans that the king never heard when Hvitserk’s nose bumped against your unloved clitoris.

He was teasing you. Teasing you from running from Kattegat when his back was turned– for fucking someone else and disobeying him. The worst part? You wanted it about as much as you wanted it to stop. Your silken, gold claimed legs wound against his face, rolling your hips up with every thrust of his tongue. More and more– Hvitserk’s fingers breached your entrance, that wonderful hole that belonged to him. He took your virginity, he claimed you. For you to just leave him?

It wasn’t happening. If anyone was leaving anyone… it would have been him. His fingers glid in, fingers harsh against bundles of nerves and lips churning a smile. He could tell you were getting close with his tongue digging into your cunt and drinking whatever juices you offer him.

“But… my spot…” You whine of your clitoris. He knows what you want, he knows how to play you like Sigurd’s Oud.

“Now you want it?” Hvitserk pulls his face free, meanly pushing his thumb against the sensitive little button. He bet you did– he bet you wanted him now that he was making you feel so wonderful while the other men watched your squirm. The buds of your breasts hard, hips squirming and legs shuddering. Just as you might cum, Hvitserk ripped himself away altogether, loosening his belt. Your head slips to the side in shame. You never wanted to be this woman so dependent on another man, but here we are.

Hvitserk slams his forearm beside your face as he guides himself between your lips. You squirm back, not wanting it, never wanting to be his bed slave like before. How he kept you tight to his bed, warming it and giving him orgasms wherever and whenever he wanted it. Whether it was under the table, with his brothers or in bed.

“You never should have left. You made me do this.” Hvitserk uses his forearm as an anchor to keep you in place, pressing his tip against your quivering cunt. He forces himself in inch by inch, savouring the slick that coats him down and thrusting into the hilt in one lone thrust. A shudder escapes his lips when you ask.

“What’s this?” You say so innocently.

“Breed you. Don’t you think you’d make a perfect mother for my sons?” Hvitserk cackles richly, pounding himself in around walls that held him so tight, he was sure that he’d cum then and there. You were in shock.

“N… No, I’m not!” You shriek out, finding its useless. His hips are pumping despite your protest, gliding himself in and out without your say in the matter.

“You are– You won’t run if you have sons.” He says matter of factly. “Shit, shit, shit!” He bends his head down to look at his dick swallowed up by your willing entrance– far more interested in him than you were at the moment, struggling away from the tickle of his braids over his shoulder. You moan as he pushes himself to the hilt, claiming your womb over and over as the other men jeer and laugh. Your cunt grips him tight, pushing him closer and closer with every thrust to his peak and for such good behaviour, Hvitserk reaches down to worship your clitoris with his love.

He needs it anyway– to knock you up. You shake and thrash underneath, rejecting yourself of that orgasm over and over again when Hvitserk shocks it out of you. He dips down to bite upon your breast, throwing you into a spiraling wave of an orgasm that rips his from under him. It doesn’t stop him from slamming himself deep, sending his seed splashing within your walls.

“You take me so well–” He moans as your contractions will every drop of his seed into your cunt. It was good– more so knowing that it’s his seed deep within your cunt threatening to spur the growth of his sons. He gives you a wicked grin, fully intent on seeding you again and again until he could sense the change in your body from that of a single woman… to that of a mother. All for him– always for him.


	37. Not Happening

It was hard for him to let go.

“She’s a woman now, my love.” You held his hand most encouragingly as he looked out after your daughter on the edge of his seat. He thought he was the fun father of his brothers– the one that ran around his sons and daughters, took them to the meadows and played. Somehow all those lessons of free time were shot down into shit when his daughter came of age. He was stress eating– his food on his stomach.

“She wants to leave me.” Hvitserk whines, as if its you, his wife of years that wants to leave him. He’s in a panic, stating that over and over again while glaring down the man from across the room. His fingertips tease over his sword as he watches his Kyi lean in against the boy in question, whose fly aways rival Ubbe’s they’re so messy. His heart keeps pulsing painfully– knowing what all the men want of his little girl. Her legs. That’s what they want– they want in between her beautiful legs and nothing else. He could just strap them down to a raft and set them out to sea, but you insisted, that wasn’t the way.

“She wants a man to go raiding with.” You say.

“But I raid with her.” He complains. Since she could raid– she would. He would always be there for her… not some random dick with half of a brain attached. As Kyi sat up straight, shifting around the man’s horn of ale, you knew it was trouble. Hvitserk leapt up, bounding down the stairs toward the table where she sat, scooting his way in between the boy in question and she.

“Hvitserk!” You called after him to no avail as he planted in place, those normally puppy like eyes sharpening as if to run off the boy.

“So,” His head bobs. He lifts his eyebrows, flicking up a knife in his palms. “Who are you?”

Who are you to flirt with his daughter? Who are you to flirt with a princess? The blond boy takes less than a minute to take the hint, taking his ale another place while Hvitserk sways in his seat. Kyi is fuming– that was her kill of the night and Hvitserk threw it away with just a few words.

“Mother!” You hear her snarl, causing you to give a small cheeky smile and an ‘I’m sorry’ off your lips as you sink into your chair.

“Go to hell, father. You ALWAYS do this!” She sasses off, picking up her horn of ale and stomping back up to her seat beside you. She sips it angrily when her father hops back up to his place, dropping into his seat as happy as can be.

“That trick isn’t going to work forever.” You tell him, realizing that your daughter is still pouting that you couldn’t control Hvitserk.

“Maybe not.” He says. “But it worked today.”


	38. An Accident

He knew he messed up.

Punching a man before he knew the situation? It was wrong. Punching a man before he knew how he was related to you? Worse. Annnnd most of all, punching him off his feet when he later learned the man was your older brother? The worst of all mistakes that left Hvitserk trying to break into his own damn home with the moon kissing the sky. His cheek was still beating an ache, battered purple from where you beat him in response.

But he didn’t care– you were in there, pouting up a storm. If he left you until tomorrow, he knew you would stew and give him the most adorable pout. But a pout nonetheless. When he managed to slink into his bed, he shook you awake from sweet dreams where your husband wasn’t there, sliding his arms around your waist and trying to soothe you over into just falling asleep with him.

The gall.

“How did you get here?” You ask, attempting to peel his hand away from your waist. Even half asleep you remembered what he had done. It wasn’t just that he slapped your brother. Your oldest of brothers could handle being jumped and beaten. He beat back. What didn’t sit well with you was knowing how he didn’t trust you. You press your face to burrow in warm furs as if to create your own little cave of safety and sleep when Hvitserk made his complaints.

“Don’t be angry with me babe. I love you…” Hvitserk husks in your ear, trying to will you back to life to slide into your good graces.

“Go away. Hvitserk Lothbrok. You punched my brother out.” You find it easier to do that than forgive him bitterly as you might do time to time.

“Only because I love you. What if he was trying to take you away?” Hvitserk flips you onto his chest, pulling your warm furs and blankets over your bodies. He keeps you pressed tight despite how you might whine, pushing yourself most dramatically to the side when he nuzzles into your neck. “I don’t want anyone else to have you like this.”

You could have whined– made complaints or pout. Somehow though, Hvitserk has this magic in his puppy like eyes. You swore it was how he braided his hair back to accentuate those brilliant eyes or the way he smiled at you like you were everything. In any case, you were fucked when he gave you that look.

Just like he was doing now.

A sigh escapes your lips, stopping that midflail to pout like a fat, grouchy housecat in his arms waiting for its next treat. You peer out of the corner of your eye at him, holding the pathetic puppy of a look in those glittering eyes.

“Fine.” You sigh. “You can stay– but don’t push your luck.”

As you say it, you already know that those traveling fingers of his have already pushed their luck hard. But how could you honestly stay mad at your puppy boy? You suppose this was just life with your Hvitserk.


	39. Marks

Another night with you left him satisfied. He could lack for nothing, except perhaps, his sanity when you ask him such questtions.

“What do you think of them?”

There was a pause from underneath you where Hvitserk courses his digits over your stomach, drawing little lines across your skin. He honestly had no idea what you were talking about. Half the time he swore your mind took off without him. So of course, you went out on a limb of an idea again. 

“What do I think of what?” He husks, shifting his hand around to your back, pulling you in against him despite laying on your side. Your fingers curl along the tattoos that litter his chest, propping your head up slightly.

“The marks.” You say. He looks down as if to his tattoos, shrugging.

“I like them?” He suggests, laughing when you shove him with your hand. Hvitserk chuckles, hushing you to be quiet when you shrill out:

“Not yours, mine.” You all but bark out, looking to the crib where your newly born daughter lays in her crib. Hvitserk jerks his head in her direction as if to tell you to hush. Then he looks back over you– as if searching your body for something completely new.

“Did you get a tattoo while I wasn’t looking? Because if so I want to lick– My hideous stretchmarks, Hvitserk.” You redirect his attention away from your thigh, where you told him you wanted to have one done. Or maybe your hip– he wasn’t sure which.

“What is wrong with your stretchmarks?” He asks, glazing a finger against the dark tears of your stomach.

“I’m flabby.” You say in regards to your loose belly. Your daughter had left you looking well, still a few months along. You were already sick of your body.

“You just gave birth a few weeks ago.” he points out. “The midwife said–”

“I don’t want to feel like I’m his anymore than I already do.” You say all at once, causing Hvitserk’s head to tilt. At first, he loses that sunny bright smile. Of course, anyone would knowing that a famed shieldmaiden was being beaten by her husband. That was before Hvitserk took it upon himself to relieve you of your bonds to him as you were quite pregnant. An amused laugh trills off his lips at the obscenity of such a statement.

“When has (Y/N) belonged to anyone?” He whispers against your lips. You should have killed him yourself– you longed to be the one to end him. Inevitably you smile at his stupid statement.

“What if I want to belong to someone?” You suggest in a tease of a hum. He looks blankly toward you as if all inner workings of his mind have stopped. Hvitserk shares a breath against yours on his lips. Then it clicks for him what you mean, turning to you with a saucy grin.

“Me?”

“Yes. As long as you belong to me first.”

Because maybe a part of him was right– no one owned you alone. But belonging with someone? That was something you could get used to.


	40. Just Another Day

Your little boy didn’t want to walk. Maybe, in a way, that was a good thing. He should have been walking months ago. But months ago, Hvitserk was on a raid with his brother Bjorn. So perhaps in a way that it was ideal that he was still crawling about with his tunic fixed on his body and a dopey smile on his lips everytime you told him to stand up. He would stand up with his father or you, but never to walk alone.

“He won’t, I’m telling you.” You mumble as you slip your knife to slice through vegetables.

“Come here, come to your fadir.” Hvitserk was bent low on the ground, furs still placed around his neck from where he had just come in. His son’s eyes, more reminiscent of his grandfather’s than Hvitserk’s, crawled forward with a rippling cackle. Hvitserk drops back onto his ass with a sigh.

“Why does he not want to walk?” Hvitserk grumbles as the little boy settles himself over his legs, making it a quaint little game to crawl over as if he were sailing through his legs like waves. Hvitserk smelled of the salty air and, yes, sweat. Even you wouldn’t touch him now. As his little son ran to his toys of wooden figurines, Hvitserk stood up, coming behind you and moving in close. His calloused hands sweep over your waist.

“He’ll walk in his own time.” You say otherwise unaffected, continuing your pace of cutting. Hvitserk grunts, kissing the top of your head. He then shifts to the side of your cheek and jaw, drifting lower and lower until he comes upon neck. The knife clatters of your hands, drifting your hand back to trace his woven braids with a hum when it hits you.

It’s quiet. Far, far, far too quiet.

“Siarr?” You move away from Hvitserk, bopping his hands across your waist and turning to where your son should have been. Except as you lean over the area you worked in, you’re frozen by the sight of little Siarr. His chubby little feet hold him upright, toes flat against the ground when usually he would try his best to tippy toe when you held his hand. Hvitserk still tries to give you a kiss when you smack him.

“Siarr!” You shout to catch Hvitserk’s attention. The little boy bends his knees slightly, almost as if he was about to drop that round little butt on the ground.

“No no no, it’s okay baby. C’mere.” You try to coax him forward, honey blond hair flat against his forehead. Hvitserk drops down to his knees, smacking you with his hand to do the same. You quickly oblige. Rather than follow after you however, Siar takes his first true steps in an unspecified direction toward a fat, fluffy dog called Hylli.

“Siarr come back to your fadir!” You try to catch his attention. Inevitably he loses his balance, falling head first into the dog’s fluffy stomach. Hylli’s head snaps forward, snout peeking against the boy’s head for a wet lick. Siarr breaks out into hysterics almost immediately and was snatched up by his father, who whines against his chest despite trying to reach out for you.

“He did it!” Hvitserk shrieked, running around the room as if he was the one that just took his first steps. Your little son’s hysterics turn into bubbly laughter that mirrors Hvitserk’s own. He hops around you, taking your wrist to spin you into his chest.

“Of course he did it.” You peck a kiss to his lips.

“He is walking!” Hvitserk jumps. The infectious energy he spills over takes you over like a plague, dancing and hopping with him like an idiot too. The house is shaking and Hylli barks, woof after woof turning anyone’s eyes to the young prince’s home. With Hvitserk home, it was just another day living beside the ridiculous prince.


	41. Do It Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:   
> Dark!Hvitserk  
> Murder

The defeat of Lagertha changed Hvitserk.

It wasn’t for the better. As his wife, you noticed the way he was acting. Your sunshine boy had gotten darker– more heated, more angry. He was still your sweet Hvitserk when you were in bed with him, but if you were being honest, you felt as if you were on a leash. One so tight that at times you felt like you were choking near his hand.

“Let me help you with that.” A man with sunshiney fresh locks came beside you. His hair swept under the glittering light of Kattegat’s sweet sunlight as you walked up from the beachside waters.

“Please, Tyr. I asked you to stay away from me. Didn’t you learn last time?” You say with hurried breath as you run back for Kattegat’s gates that were being constructed. Your hands kept a hold on the pole which held water on either side.

“You think him punching me out is gonna do shit?” Tyr bounded ahead of you on his heels, walking backwards as you walk up.

“You don’t know what he can do.” You say. Tyr snuffs that knowledge, dipping around you to swipe the pole off your shoulders in one hand. His other hand swipes up your waist.

“Yeah whatever. C’mon baby.” Tyr slides you close.

“No, Tyr please give me that back.” You reach upon your tippy toes to reach. Tyr bends his head to bump your noses together, the silvery grey hues of his eyes catching yours. You want to scream at him– explain how you don’t want this when your suddenly relieved of looking into those eyes that are sharp as Hvitserk’s blade.

“The fuck are you doing around my woman?”

The voice is a deep hiss. You don’t need to look to know who it is. Hvitserk’s fist has dug so deeply into Tyr’s blonde locks, twisting him around to shove him into the arms of another Viking man that accompanied you. The thralls around quickly take note of when to make themselves scarce, heading back toward the gates of Kattegat.

“Hvitserk that wasn’t what it looked like!” You call out to him, finding that he’s purely ignoring your presence. He’s been dying to do this since the last time your little ex, Tyr, tried to corral you in the marketplace.

“You’ve been looking at her, you little fuck. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Hvitserk bites again when the other Viking man twisted the pole around in front of Tyr’s throat, causing Tyr’s breath to cough up his throat as he thrashed. Hvitserk looks to you, standing behind him as he sways in front of Tyr.

“You want his ass, princess?” A daring low whisper. You’re breath swells out of your chest when Hvitserk lurches forward, yanking your wrist over to him.

“Do you?!” He snarls– and you know you’re about to be in trouble.

“No!” You shriek. “Of course I don’t want him, I never did!”

“See?” Hvitserk trills. “She’s happy.”

Hvitserk’s firm grip leaves your wrist, tugging you in to gingerly kiss the top of your head. “Of course you didn’t want him.” Hvitserk says, and again he would ball his fist up, veins popping when he whirls around to punch Tyr square in the face. The first time garners a grunt– but the second, the third and so forth get sputtering coughs of his blood. His nose cracks at an odd ankle, telling you that its likely broken.

Like a coward, you say nothing. You watch Hvitserk’s knuckles crack, bleeding to as he beats the man. Eventually the other Viking thrust him onto the ground when Hvitserk’s knuckles were at their limits. On the ground his boot crushes the man’s crotch, digging in with an irritable mash. With a few thrusts of his boot to the man’s ribs he finally looks up. But he’s not done, crunching the Tyr’s throat under his dark boot and unsheathing his sword with a whirring his of its sheath.

“(Y/N), princess come here.” Hvitserk’s voice is like that of a still wind, light and refreshing on the constant grunts of agony and blood that sweeps through the grass. You obey, knowing better than to enrage him. Your hands stroke over your wedding ring, glancing up to Hvitserk’s towering frame.

“I want you to do it.” Hvitserk holds out the grip of his sword– that has met many an enemy on the battlefield. He conquered his countrymen, saxons and anyone in between. Your digits are trembling as you take the sword with two hands.

The man’s lower body twists, rolling in bloodied blades of grass. You’re sure he would have tried to kill you if not for Hvitserk’s black haired friend that pulls his wrists straight down his chest as he sits on his lower stomach.

“It’ll just be a little whack.” Hvitserk shifts behind you. His hands slip over your waist while another caresses your stomach. The red of his hands blends with the crimson dress you wear, but likely, your cincher will stain. Your eyes screw shut and force little wrinkles to form. It’s just once. You can do it for him, you think.

“Do it!” Hvitserk snarls. His boot shifts to the man’s head to pin him in place. You force yourself to block out Tyr’s pathetic sobs of please, please, please– I want to go to Valhalla. You snuffed them short when you swung your beloved’s blade over his exposed neck. There’s a nasty noise, sword meeting bone. Blood soaks you being so close to him– and Hvitserk laughs as he lets go of you, doddling around to admire your work. The blade would thud in the grass. You did it– and it fills you with dread to see his silvery eyes opened with adamant horror.

“You really didn’t want him!” Hvitserk jumps in glee. His friend dismounts Tyr’s body, slipping off his armring. The two are slick of blood and your hands, just as much. The two set off for Kattegat as you take in the sight of the deadman.

“Princess! Bring me my sword!” Hvitserk howls back to you. When you don’t move, Hvitserk stops midturn. “Aren’t you coming?”

A warning or a laugh, you’re not sure. You bend down to take the sword and run after Hvitserk and his strange new Viking friend. You don’t have to ask about burial rights for the boy. No, not at all. The birds would have him.

It was Saturday.

A Saturday where you bathed the sin off your body in a warm bath. No matter how much you washed with herb scented soap you felt red. Your appetite was null, still bothered by the sight of a limp and lifeless body in the fields of Kattegat. Now in the hall with your brother-in-law and husband, you felt as if you couldn’t stomach much.

“You are not eating. What is wrong with you?” Hvitserk held bites of chicken between his fingers.

“It’s nothing.” You answer quickly.

“It does not sound like nothing.” He draws his arm over your chair. You garner a glance of Ivar who likely thinks the same. “What can daddie do to make it better, hm?”

Daddie? Ivar says beside his brother. His lips are pulling up into a smile under the fingers that are in his mouth as he chews. It’s all very amusing to him. Hvitserk looks to his younger brother with a nod, smiling and looking back to you. You’re hardly convinced, looking away from Hvitserk when he reaches over, taking your hand to his lips for a soft kiss.

“C’mon pretty princess. Tell King Ivar what you want to do.” Hvitserk’s satin lips pull off of your knuckles, holding your hands in his calloused ones. Heat soars to your face in dread when you realize what Hvitserk means. Your exhibitionist qualities. The ache you felt in wanting to be more free– like Margrethe had been. You want to play. It just so happens that its fine with Hvitserk. So long as he is the one in control of who entered his bedroom. You try to ignore it, but Ivar leans forward to look you with wild eyes gleaming. Your thighs slicken in the awkwardness of such excitement.

“Tell your king what you want.” Ivar hisses, far too amused for his own good.

“I… want to fuck you.” You murmur, finding it easier to pull away and drink your ale than deal with the consequences of his words. Ivar’s tongue caresses the corner of his mouth. Hvitserk’s hand has shifted up your skirts, caressing your moist folds. Hvitserk tests the waters by slipping a finger into your cunt.

“But she behaved badly today by making me jealous.” Hvitserk remarks, pulling his fingers away from you when Ivar leaned back. He looks to his throne as he takes his crutch up.

“Let her king teach her a lesson.” Ivar commands, making his way up to his way up to his throne. Hvitserk follows and holds his hand out to you. Maybe you could have ran– but this seemed like a perfect way to wash away the guilt. Hvitserk shoves you in front of him, standing behind you and beginning peel away your overdress, then the undress goes along with it. It’s to the pleasure of the eyes of those in the Great Hall. Your naked flesh was cool against the air and hot against the eyes taking you in.

“Shh, shh, shh! We must see what punishment this entitles!” Ivar holds up his hands, willing down the excitement brewing in the hall. “What is it you did?”

A moment of pause. “I… excited Tyr.” You supply. Normally of course, that was Tyr’s own fault. He should have been the one to suffer for it and he did– terribly.

“In front of your husband?” Ivar tilts his head. The laughter of the crowd stopped altogether. Everyone had heard of what Prince Hvitserk had done.

“Apparently.” You snap.

“Careful.” He grins wickedly, slapping the dark heavy wood of his throne. “It is decided… a public humiliation is in order. Bind her wrists.”

The man from earlier stepped forward, puling and tying them with a flaxen rope. You grunt as he winds the knots tight then step aside. Hvitserk grins from behind you, walking you back and back until the back of your legs hit Ivar’s trousers. He reaches out to grasp your nipples between thumb and index finger and tugs them forward.

“Sit on him.” Hvitserk orders, tweaking them painfully in his fingers. You do as he orders– but instead of the flat surface of his hips, you feel Ivar guiding himself within your wet walls. His hands at your hips snap you back onto him and he fills you, reaching the end of your tight channel that holds him tightly inside. A wanton moan rips from your chest. The great Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok and descendent of Odin is deep within your folds. Hvitserk relinquished one of your nipples long enough to slap your tit, then the other. You’re well trained, avoiding any cries as Ivar sets out a brutal pace to fucking you, guiding your hips up and down his cock as if you are his toy alone. Your eyes seal shut as you battle with your noises, desperate to show no pleasure, but its failing. Of course it is, that is what Ivar wants. He fucks into your cunt with hips shifting each inch in and out of you.

“Open your eyes.” Hvitserk’s smooth voices washes over your body with a thick clench to Ivar’s cock. “How does he feel?”

“G-Good!” You cry out with a line of drool slipping from the corner of your lips. “So fucking good!”

Ivar’s strong arms shift to grasp you, arms below or above your tits, yanking you back against him. A foreign pleasure teases you of being unable to stop his hips from shifting forward. He claims you with smooth thrusts, in and out– and gods, he is definitely not your husband. Hvitserk’s hand digs into your hair as he yanks out his cock, pressing the tip of his member to your lips.

“Suck me off.” He commands. Your plush lips part to welcome him into your warm mouth. His taste is familiar to you– but the firmness of his cock thrusting in and out of your mouth at an unforgiving pace is what shocks you the most. The crowd below is watching with jovial roars and bright grins, waiting for their king and prince to explode. Hvitserk’s hips undulate, taking his time with your mouth around his member. He uses your hair as a lead, whipping you down to take him fully.

“Agh!” Ivar hisses below you. “What a good little princess, squeezing my dick!”

You moan in response, causing reverberations of pleasure to ripple up Hvitserk’s cock. He tugs in swells of air nearly at his peak. He narrowly misses tugging out of your mouth on time when Ivar barks at him to pull out, tugging the skin of his shaft harshly. Pearls of white spill over your naked breasts, exposed to the audience whom laughs jovially. Then it is their King whom hits his peak, squeezing you with his muscular arms. His seed spills into your walls as you pull him through his orgasm, hardly meeting your own.

Your cunt is still sticky when Hvitserk leans down to kiss you, guiding your cunt off of Ivar’s softening member. Hvitserk lifts you over his shoulder, cracking his hand upon your ass. Your used cunt seeps the King’s seed as he tucks his cock back in place and turns down the stairs. Somehow, Hvitserk always manages to outdo himself.


	42. Not Yet

…if possible, I would like to request Hvitserk Lothbrok.  
With much love,  
– (Y/N) (L/N)

Ubbe swore that this would not be a waste of his time. That the premium he would receive for working this scene would be hefty. Coming from the world reknown super model, overall bad girl and actress (Y/N), it was about to be good. Hvitserk kept staring at his tablet with eyes squinting at this email. 

“Agree to do it.” Ubbe came with a hand around a pitch black coffee, probably as black as his soul at this moment. He hates that he’s let Ubbe becoming his manager but its a position that Ubbe has had all of their adult lives. He would care for the most important of his affairs since he was young, younger than eighteen when he thrust himself into this for the easy money, that is.

“She’s a fucking millionaire.” Hvitserk grumbles, knowing what this would do to his career. Sure, he’s done a lot of things. He did that fetish shoot where that girl asked him to stuff his face positively sick– and still expected him to fuck her. He’s fucked women of all sizes from the daintiest to the thickest, fattest women he could find. It wasn’t like he wasn’t a household name when the word ‘porn’ came up.

Yeah, he’s had his share. But (Y/N) served a different purpose for him.

“Mmm.” Ubbe reaches over to ruffle Hvitserk’s hair that sits back in a bun on his head. “Where is the big talk of rocking her sweet little pussy now?”

Hvitserk had expelled thought of that conversation out of his mind. A short leaked clip of your sweet pussy bouncing on a black dildo, dripping over its length. Wrists pulsing red under a cherry red rope that held you so tight– he could almost taste your submission on his tongue. He could almost hear you calling him daddie, daddie; like you always should have.

He felt his cock twitching itself into an annoying hardness, wondering what jewels were on your nipples under that pathetically sheer white top. He always knew you could be a perfect little kitten to keep under his fingers.

“Why does she want a sex tape?” He murmurs after several moments of ponder.

Ubbe takes a sip of his coffee, hissing plumes of steam up. “She likes to fuck. Hurry up and decide.”

Fuck. That was doing nothing for the boner threatening to burst cum down his pantleg. He knew you were known to be less than innocent. That was how you made your money with entertainment. But did he expect to be your next target? No, of course not. He dominated his women.

“Of course I’m going to fuck her.” Hvitserk shifts the furry grey decorative pillows over his cock, letting his head drop back. “I want to fucking own her.”

Ubbe laughs– as if he doesn’t believe what his little brother was saying. He knows one thing, with a woman like (Y/N), there was no other option. Hvitserk had to do well or it might just threaten his career. From the look slapped across Hvitserk’s face, he was already counting down the minutes.

This wasn’t to advance your career. If you were being honest, your career was fine. You had paced in your home for what felt like hours for the arranged time. Ubbe Lothbrok was already here arranging a space that would be perfect for what Hvitserk had in mind.

What did Hvitserk have in mind? It was entirely up to him. Ubbe gave you no hints, none about the boy you had essentially rented out like a highly paid whore. For the hefty price you were paying, you wanted him to make you feel. Feel something. Anything. You wanted to see Hvitserk Lothbrok and fall apart like all the other women did. Fear or excitement, they were all sopping wet by the end of it. That ache for a man? That was something you needed as a woman.

“We’re ready for you.” Ubbe growled downstairs. You slip down the stairs that led to the basement. Ubbe turned to watch you come in, smoothing your moist palms out on a body con skirt. Your sheer leggings come up one against another when you stop in place, rubbing the black crystals of your high heels against one another. You kept telling yourself that it wouldn’t be that bad.

“You’ve been watching his videos.” Ubbe remarks. Tight corsets, sheer leggings and slutty heels? His favourite. You want to snark something off at how it wasn’t. You dressed for you always, but the bobbing steps behind you stop you all together. They round behind you, stomping to a stomp. Your eyes take in sight of him– from the tightness of those dark jeans and murky boots, you know its him.

“Hvitserk Loth–” You begin to say.

“No use in doing that. All I need to know is your safe word. What is it?” He says in a confident hiss, letting his boot come between your legs to spread them apart. Your nerves are already snatched tight like a rubber band, legs like either end as he peels them open. The gates of your excitement snap, a stain of wetness pooling at your core.

You hadn’t thought of that. “Sugar.” You answer. He doesn’t reply as Ubbe steps back to his camera with an impassive shrug. Hvitserk’s hand snakes behind to the bodycon skirt that crinkles up your thick hips, wringing it in hashly. Your hands drop back against his chest, whining under the harsh squeezing of your ass under his digits. It was sure to leave a mark. Hvitserk’s palm cracks over your ass, burning your cheeks. He lacks any gentleness, whirling your slick into a fall of excitement when he speaks.

“You asked for me by name.” Hvitserk husks in your ear, barely a hot whisper when another sting broke out on your cheeks that now sting red. “Didn’t you ask for Daddie?”

A harsh gasp escapes your throat on the thinly stretched gasps at another whirling smack. He grasps the thin fabric of your skirt, flipping out that same hunting knife he always keeps in all his videos. It’s nearly as long as your tiny skirt and with one cutting sweep, it falls about your heels. Hvitserk’s hand snatches your throat as he replaces the knife back on his belt. The other hand takes to your cheek in a commanding smack. It aches deep within your core, soaking you in excitement.

“I believe Daddie asked you a question, whore.” He snaps. Hvitserk sweeps you back, stumbling over your heels to shove you back into a chair across the room. Ubbe shuffles the camera around to capture this moment. His grip tightened, muscles firming when your hand snaps to his.

“Yes Daddie.” Your voice comes in bubbly rasps.

“Yes Daddie what?”

A rasp. “I wanted your dick, Daddie.” You supply to his amusement. His fingers snap to your thin fabric of your panties, twisting it along your slit to wring along your slick. “That’s right you did. You’re a rich bitch, but you’re aching for it. Fucking filthy!”

Hvitserk digs into his pocket, sliding out a rosy pink toy. You recognize the little number from one of his videos and visibly shudder as Hvitserk slides away your panties. A sole finger plunges within your moist entrance and is swallowed up by your eager walls. “Look at you taking my fingers.” Hvitserk murmurs, sliding the bullet to flush against your hood. Buzzing vibrations rattle down your lips and you clench him tightly inside. He rasps a laugh.

“Little skank.” He lets another finger join the first. Then, pleased with his work, he slides two weighted balls into your cunt. He replaces the bullet against your clit before drawing up your panties again.

“How is it you know just what I like?” Hvitserk shifts you around to face him. Hvitserk took to the clasps of your corset, undoing each little one. You almost want to cover yourself, but Hvitserk snaps his fingers to the side.

“Hands down, little girl.”

Your hands drop to the side, forced to ignore the wonderful buzzing between your legs that had your cunt dripping in excitement. This was the excitement you longed for, hips bucking for more friction against the bullet buzzing inside of your panties.

“Now, you’re not very good at listening are you?” Hvitserk send shocks of pain through your nipples by grabbing one, pinching them flatly with a tug. You whimper loudly enough that Hvitserk roars a laugh.

“Mm. You’re a bad girl. I think you’ll need more punishment. Ubbe, on the bed.” He orders his brother over. Ubbe shifts to the plush grey bed pressed against the middle of the bed in the room. He plucks up the camera again just as Hvitserk shoves you in his direction, controlling the speed of the little toy whizzing away between your legs. You force yourself not to buckle or whine– noises that you know will put you into a heap of trouble with Hvitserk.

“Climb over his lap now. Ass up, face down on his dick. The way it should be for badly behaved girls.” Hvitserk growls. You shudder as you crawl over his brother’s lap, causing Ubbe to lift the camera as your cheek rubs against his clothed cock. He basks in the swell of embarassment that lifts at your cheeks as you get into position for Hvitserk, gliding your ass into the air for Hvitserk.

Get the fucking wand. Hvitserk tells his brother. Shortly after, an eruption of pressure glides along your outer lips, buzzing and vibrating in bursts. Your panties are sodden, but worsen with the need to burst when you realize that Ubbe has leaned on his side with a hitatchi wand buzzing around your cunt.

“Don’t you dare cum little girl.” Hvitserk caresses your cheek in something you could almost call affectionate. The bed would creak again, leaving you only to the sweet pleasure building up in your core when you realize– its too good to be true. Hvitserk wasn’t known for simply blinding pleasure. There is a rich slide of fabric through loops, whirling to a stop. Your answer came seconds later when a hot sting of a whip came down on your plush skin. Your hips stuttered forward in the pain, meeting Ubbe’s vibrating toy that bursts pleasure through your cunt.

“Oh fuck! Please let me cum, Daddie!” You shout, immediately finding your hand slapping over your mouth. A dark chuckle emanates from Hvitserk’s lips, muscles tensing as he lets loose another strike on your burning flesh.

“Not happening, little girl. Shut her up Ubbe.”

The camera lays abandoned while Ubbe fiddles with the button on his pants. Your shaking hands come up to the button, vision spotty under the weight of Hvitserk’s punishing whips across your bruised flesh. Ubbe’s hips flinch up as you pull down both pant and his underwear. Behind you, Hvitserk lurches over to you in great amusement, looping the belt around your throat. The leather belt hisses to the buckle, tightly cutting off your breath. Your hand comes to your throat quickly.

“Safe word.” He commands you to speak.

“Sugar, daddie.”

“Good girl.” Hvitserk lowers himself to your raised ass, admiring the raising of the skin with a mean bite. “Do a good job, little kitten. I want him to writhe.”

With nothing else Hvitserk dips between your folds. While he holds the belt with one hand, he slides away your panties. Pesky things that do little good but hold that bullet in place against your cunt. He dips down to taste you and just as he does, he knows he’s fucked. There’s something natural about your ridges and curves, different from the other whores that hes fucked. As his tongue glides through the folds, your rough tongue has taken to Ubbe’s silken cock, drifting down his shaft that has hardened through voyeuristic pleasures. The eldest brother teases the wand against your clit, swirling and groaning when your warm, wet mouth finally engulfs him whole.

“Fuck,” Ubbe says in a gravelly voice. “Suck me down babe.”

Your eyes flicker up to his ruddy beard, lips closed around his beard as you slid him in and out of your mouth. You would form a tight suction by hollowing out your cheeks, tongue gliding against the underside of his dick. You pop over the ridges seperating shaft from head, pursing your lips around the shaft beautifully. Ubbe almost hisses in complaint when your tongue flickers across his slit, dancing and mocking his wish for you to suck him down. He hardly complains, simply groaning. It’s Hvitserk who tightens the belt around your throat.

“You had better listen.” Hvitserk says against your entrance. His tongue flickers within, drinking up any slick he can find like an addict, seeking out the remnants of your excitement as Ubbe whizzes the wand against your clit. It’s engorged from such excitement, trying to will the orgasm from your fingers. You clench the balls that have been in your cunt this whole time tight. With a shaking breath you slide your mouth back down on Ubbe, preoccupying your hands by massaging his balls. The eldest brother isn’t one for patience either. As soon as your mouth descends upon him, he bucks forward into your warm cavern, groaning at the bobbing of your head around him.

“Is she close?” Ubbe moans. A hand leaves his balls in favour for jerking his shaft.

“Who says she can cum?” Hvitserk grunts, holding the tension in the belt so you hack up desperately. He holds it there for a few seconds, releasing so that your tongue can stroke Ubbe’s slit as you come upon it. He doesn’t last, spilling over your tongue when you throat him deep as you could to appease Hvitserk. His seed spurts over your mouth and throat, coating yourself in his rich essence. In such shock Ubbe tightens the wand buzzing at your clit, giving you that extra push with Hvitserk’s fingers shoving within your wet walls to push you over. Spurts of hot pleasure burst within your core, offering up sweet juices all over Hvitserk’s face.

And he isn’t pleased. You know that even though he rides out the orgasm with you, the second you come down, it will be hell. Hvitserk’s hand slaps your clit as you finally come down, belt pulled tight the whole time.

“I don’t ask much.” He starts. “But I have certain rules for you to obey little girl.” Hvitserk pulls you off of Ubbe’s softening cock with his belt, shoving you back onto the bed. His hand is at his aching cock behind his pants, massaging himself with a grunt.

“For you to get gifts,” He pats his dick. “You have to obey me. And if you don’t, you don’t get any. Ubbe.” He jerks his head toward the stairs– and just like that, with his balls weighing down your aching cunt, he leaves you gaping for cock. You know one thing. This feeling, that you so wanted to feel, its name is desire.


	43. Completely Innocent

He knew the chances of being caught red handed with Ubbe were bad. His waterlogged boots squish wetly as he moves beside his older brothers Bjorn and Ubbe, pushing away the reeds that shelter his view of the camp.

“This way.” Hvitserk murmurs. Ubbe slides to look behind behind himself as if anyone was looking. Bjorn reassures him with a stone faced look– as if nothing would go wrong because Bjorn Ironside was there.

“Her brother told you to do this?” Bjorn asks.

Hvitserk leans down as if in a crouch as they come up the shore. “Told, hint. It’s all the same isn’t it brother? He says their people do it all the time.”

Bjorn says nothing in response. They wad through itchy, high dark grass. The tents are jovial with their bright colours and dark woods in the large full moon. The flame has been put out as of hours but the embers are still a bit popping red. Hvitserk glances over, braids a deep muddy brown with the dirty water that chills him. He’s the first to lurch forward, shouldering past Ubbe to the camp in question. The younger Ragnarsson knows where he’s going. There are dark figures under warm handmade blankets. He finds the one he wants, drawing back the blanket under a mess of her strewn hair.

“Is she here?” He says.

Underneath the sheets is a caramel toned boy with chocolate eyes that pop behind is his sloppy hair. His own puppy eyes glint mischievously.

“Other bed, Hvitserk.”

Ubbe has his sincerest doubt about trusting this boy— one of her family. But Hvitserk was convinced as he peels back the covering to your bed. But what choice did he have? He tried to do things the honorable way.

“Hvitserk?”

“I want to marry (Y/N).”

Hvitserk had come to your camp in the best of tunics, his expensive furs warm on his shoulders. The girls were swooning and sighing but none as fondly as you— who spent your time late at night sneaking out of bed to go skinny dipping with him. Who was the only one that got those cheeky smiles and his playful tongue against the corner of his lip insinuating just what he wanted to eat that evening. But your father was stone faced on the other side of this gasy wall that was a fire where they talked.

“No.” He said with a voice thickened by his accent.

Hvitserk kneeled on one knee. “I’ll pay more than your bride price.” Hvitserk’s hand fondled a golden pouch of coins. Your bangle clad hands clasped together with maiden excitement for the prospect of being his bride. Not because he was a Ragnarsson– because he was your Hvitserk.

Your father silently stoked the fire.

“Then in livestock or thrall?” Hvitserk supplies alternatives, but it’s the last of options that sets your father off. The way Hvitserk spoke in his people’s tongue differs from the word you would have used for a slave.

“She won’t marry you because you are a filthy foreigner.” He snapped out. From the other side of the fire, your smile died a sad death on your lips. “We will leave soon. You can forget all about her and marry one of those skinny blondes your men are so fond of.”

Hvitserk’s sweet face dropped as much as yours.

“Hvitserk?”

Your eyes were large, glistening wetly under the heavy blanket. He tries not to make a noise with his wet armour. Ubbe guards inside while Bjorn stands on the other side of the tent like a great bear.

“Hi sweet thing.” Hvitserk reaches a bare knuckle to rub your cheek, black kohl smearing down the apples of your cheeks. It’s clear that you had been sobbing under the covers.

“Why are you here?” You move to sit up. Your creamy low cut wrapped top drapes low on your chest and you slide your legs under a skirt that was deep as the starry sky.

“I couldn’t leave my beautiful girl here.” Hvitserk cooes, and you find yourself laughing a little too.

“Well that doesn’t answer me.” You laugh heartily. Hvitserk leans out to slide his arms underneath your legs to lift you up from the bed. You grunt a little softly, earning a ssshhhh when your mother stirs beside you. Your brother, a lanky thing of little muscle, slides out from the side of Hvitserk to slip into your bed under the sheets.

“Stealing a bride.” He jerks his head to Ubbe– squishing as he ran out. Bjorn falls behind his little brothers as the whispers within the tent become barking. Where is she? There’s horses on the other side of the river! You know it won’t be the last laugh you have to share with your soon to be husband. Unlike the coals of the fire, the heat of your laughs as you swam across the river wouldn’t be snuffed out again.


	44. Are You Kidding Me?

“Come see!”

Your new husband was one of a kind. Not every woman could handle a man so animated with you and on occasion quiet and brooding out in public when something made him uncomfortable. It was a constant watch of your husband to make sure he was happy and healthy. But mostly fed, he was a man with an appetite that never slowed down. For a lack of another word, he was ravenous. Your eyes were fluttered closed against the pads of his fingers, waddling you out of your new home and into green pastures.

“What am I seeing baby?” You mumble, slipping your husband’s hand down your face.

As soon as his fingers released, your eyes pop open to the sight of a soft white cow– of good breed, you think. “A… cow?” You look behind yourself to Hvitserk’s bright wide smile.

“A wedding gift!” He says with a kiss to the side of your neck.

Oh.

Instead of a fluffy kitten or a herding dog, your husband had bought you… a cow. A fat cow at that. You knew that farmers would be flattered. But… you were a princess now, not that sweet farm girl that giggled every time Hvitserk Ragnarsson tromped through your father’s garden at night just to sneak in through the tunnel underneath your house to get to you.

“Mm, he’s sooo cute baby!” Your head bends toward him to get his lips off of your neck. Then you move forward, holding your hand out to the fat cow. His long pink tongue unrolls from his mouth to lick your palm. He snuffs it when he realizes you have no snacks for him. You loved cows. They were so stupid.

“What are you going to call him?” Hvitserk asks, coming to stand beside you while your cow grazes in the pasture.

“Sumar!” You giggle, a kiss to your cheek when Hvitserk leaned back on the heel of his foot.

“Make him fat for me. For winter.” Hvitserk gives you a cheeky grin. You shrug it off too, he couldn’t possibly mean that, could he?

He did. Or at least, he had.

“You can’t kill Sumar!” You shrill at him, a piece of pottery whizzing by to smack the axe in his hand clean out of his hand. He hisses when it clatters upon the ground. You stomp clear out of their warm little cabin, out into the snow without so much as a fur to your name and storm into the barn

“(Y/N) he’s just a cow!”

“He isn’t just a cow to me! He’s my family!” You were dramatic, flopped over the fat cow’s round stomach as if Hvitserk was about to take your prized kitten. This wasn’t a kitten. It was a cow. A fat, succulent cow of juicy steaks and messy ribs that he had been looking forward to all fucking summer and fall. Most of all he missed slow roasted beef of juniper and fennel or better yet! That meaty stew you would make with onion, celery and carrot. He’d beg on his knees for that on a cold winter day.

“I can buy you more family! I’m hungry!”

Hvitserk scoffs and rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, staring at you intently when you throw him that look– that one that meant to knock it the fuck off. He knows what snacks he isn’t having this winter. His hand burns with the bruises beginning to form. This stupid cow– Sumar, wasn’t going anywhere.

“Then Rodull.” He suggests of your fat and fed pig, fetching the axe that was placed back on his belt.

“No! Do you hate me that much!”

Norns– Hvitserk scans over the many pigs and cows he’s gotten you. Even the stupid chickens that you insist are good for eggs. “Babe… I’m hungry. What should we eat then?”

“Go fishing.” You say with a pout. Hvitserk gawks. The water had frozen over– fish would be scarce. Or at the very least, it would be time consuming to fetch them. It served him right for buying you so many of these stupid little pets. With a growl, Hvitserk turned out of the doorway.

The gods were fucking with him today.


	45. Never Run Away

You ran out of Kattegat.

Perhaps your return was ever fated by the way people looked at you. The men would approach you thinking you were easy, the women would whisper in their husband’s ear and your father had been shamed. He could not do as many man would; go claim retribution. If he demanded it of the Ragnarsson, he would be sorely remorseful. With no other option, father sold his land and moved. You knew you ruined it all.

All because of him.

So you trained, you fought and made by yourself a household name. You helped Harald conquer kings, freed princesses of their binds and raided like a queen. Years had passed since you were that stupid young girl, dreaming of her dalliances with one of Kattegat’s cutest princes. It was so long ago. You pushed the thought of your mind thrusting over the doors of Kattegat’s Great Hall. You felt the heat of stares from within and the lamps that were warm with flame on your skin.

The warriors filtering forward were thrust one way, then another; you came in a hot rush, knuckles born with strain. The Ragnarsson on the throne lifts his head as you stop with your hand to the sword on your belt.

“(Y/N). It’s been a while.” King Ivar says.

“Nevermind that. I’ve come to make a formal challenge.” You hiss– hushed whispers claim the room while you fling your shield to the floor, scratching and crashing. The warriors step aside. Your long hair is pulled back as if for battle, braided tightly back into the clips that hold it in an elaborate ponytail.

“Well, if that’s what you want.” Ivar pushes himself off his throne, ready to receive you in battle.

“Not you.” You hiss. “Hvitserk.”

The whispers die a cold death on the lips of the bystanders. They all know why you are here to kill Hvitserk. He had shamed you in the eyes of the gods. No man, especially not your late father, had been able to restore your honour.

You were here to take it back.

“Come out and face me Hvitserk!” You find the man himself was crouched low beside Ivar. He pushes up on the balls of his feet, palming a peach in his hand. Fruit for dinner. Of course, he would have sweet things for dinner. You were surprised that he hadn’t had a thrall thrust over the table instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to forget this?” Hvitserk murmurs.

You can’t let it go. A Viking never let go of revenge. Should you be different because you were a shieldmaiden? You were a berserker. You could fly off the handle just as well as any other Viking.

“You dishonoured me. You dishonoured my father.” You stagger forward with a hateful sneer beating on your lips. “Why should I forget this?”

There’s obvious strain on your forehead where you tighten your brow.

“…because you enjoyed it?” He suggests– and like wildfire you set off. You steal the war pick from your belt, chucking it in Hvitserk’s direction so quick all he can do is drop to the floor with a grunt. It embeds in the drapery behind him. His braids bob on his shoulders while he rolls off of the stairs. He scrambles for a blade as you crash towards him with your sword. Ivar quickly supplies it to him.

“Shut up!” You snarl, blades hissing together in a beating strike. Hvitserk shoves back, hopping off to the side.

“If you would just let me explain.” Hvitserk murmurs.

Fruitless words. You come at him again near the bulky looms. Hvitserk slips behind it, arching his back to the side when your sword beats through the strands. He dips down in a roll, running away from the womanly items.

“There’s nothing to explain!” You jerk your arm pack from a piercing stab into the floorboards. A sharp miss– your blade sticks. Hvitserk abandons his, tackling you down beside a group of rich karls. Your hand snaps to the axe on your belt. An action he quickly notices, slamming his forehead into yours with a sharp crack. You’re momentarily seeing stars, and quickly, you shake it off. There’s a whizzing. Your axe hisses across the wooden floor. Hvitserk’s hands snap to pin your wrists above your head.

“It is not my fault you ran away.” Hvitserk supplies. Your long legs wind about his waist, strong muscle like the roots of Yggdrasil. He feels you throw him over, pinning his arms back in exchange.

“I did not run away!” You snap, snapping up the pick on your belt. It presses against his pale skin, eliciting beads of blood. “You were the village whore, not me! And yet I am to blame for being only yours?!”

In all of that– a small, cheesy smile spreads across his lips. It had been years. Five, ten? You aren’t sure. Enough to become a woman and face this man underneath you who– who… was smiling. The smile sends your mind whirling toward memories. The chatter of the karls around filter away… and you check out completely.

Wonderful memories of Hvitserk surprising you in the forest, dragging you into the flowers to steal your virginity from your father’s nose. Smooth, strokes of his hips and the softest of kisses over your neck like silk. They all careen forward to smack you in the middle of your head.

You have him. Slit his throat.

“Well?” Says King Ivar in a charmed tone.

Slit his throat! Do it for father! The blade is shaking in your hand under the weight of your thoughts. If you would just grow some lady balls and slide your knife into his throat, everything would be better. Your cheeks are hot like the rest of your body, rising and falling with the difficulty of this short lived fight. Then your blade slashes. Not into Hvitserk, but against the deep wood beside him.

He made you weak.

“What I wouldn’t have gave to be able to slice your throat open.” You lean down against Hvitserk’s ear. Your body flushes against his– and the heat of the moment has his dick rising in excitement. He knows you couldn’t kill him. “I would flay you like a fish if I could.” Your hands leave his.

As you lurch to get off of him, Hvitserk thrusts up to grasp your hand. And instinctively, your fist crashes into his forehead. You lay his ass flat on the planks as you rise up. A snarl replaces any fondness on your lips. Fondness of threats or fondness of killing you aren’t sure.

You only know that you couldn’t do it.

“Huh.” Ivar’s head bobs in pure, blatant amusement as you collect your weapons. “Stay for the feast.”

The way he speaks– you know its an order. You sheathe your father’s sword in a black sheath, wiping the blood away from your skin onto the red of your overtunic and black armor. A king asking you to dinner was a kind gesture to some. But to a shieldmaiden? Something else.

“Of course, my King.” You mock a bow.

You didn’t have a choice.


	46. Speak Carefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Non-Con but rather surprised wife. There is some violence and minor character death.

The gods give, the gods take away.

Wise words said at a time where Hvitserk was not ready for them. He had been away, loosening his braids in favor of a long slicked back look as he grieved bitterly. You didn’t have a hair out of place.

You were still a beautiful mess. You swept the great hall in a gorgeous aqua blue dress, strands laced tight and beautiful waterfall sleeves accentuating a whimsical appearance. Pretending that every night, you did not roll on your side to gaze at an empty bassinet. Or acting like there wasn’t a wall built up between Hvitserk and you. Hvitserk was nursing a blaring headache over a pitcher of ale, resting his head upon folded arms.

“Is he asleep?” Voices of those finishing their ale say.

“Must be. Poor fuck.” Another Viking says. “I’s not everyday a King loses a son.”

Definitely talking about him. Hvitserk’s hand still drapes over his pitcher of booze, ignoring the bread of sweet nut and fruit you attempt to lay by his head.

“Not everyday a man has a fucking kitten of Freyja in his bed either.”

Behind his arm, his eyes pop back open. The bags under his eyes puff, red eyes taking in your sight as you walk back to gingerly weave some sort of beautiful blanket. Your hips spill over the chair, long hair braided along the side and curling neatly in small little curls down to your drastically widened hips. The men chide too, clanking their cups together.

“Yeah ha.” A Viking rasps in rich little huffs. “She’s filled out real nice. Don’t think he’s been drinking her milk up either. Her breasts are looking big.”

His hand clenches tight.

“Forget the tits, that ass can barely sit on that stool. That’s the best part!”

Hvitserk watches as your head snaps in the direction of the Vikings, only to be caught by one abruptly standing by the scooting of the bench. In his view he can only see your hand coming to your breast, trying your best to ignore them but the words are just too much. Hvitserk’s fingers flicker.

“You know what I would do if she was my wife!” Says a strong voice. “Quit mopin’ like a boy, grow some balls, bend her over and fill her back up like a husband ought to. That’s what I’d do!”

The old man takes a step forward– towards where you were clenching your tapestry beater tight in your fist. You slip off of your stool, standing and beckoning back wordlessly. The drunkard sloshes forward, as unsteady as the liquidous ale in his cup.

“Ain’t that right baby? Your husband is actin’ like a bitch. I bet if he just asked you would bend over nice and spread that fat ass out for him.”

“I…” You slide on the other side of the tapestry, fingers slipping away from the heavy frame to the space where Hvitserk kept the other weapons. Just as you grip your hand around a sword you are cut off.

The shrill yell from your husband’s lips cuts that sentence shut. If you had any articulated thoughts, you no longer do. He fists the handle of the axe, launching it from its place beside his head clearly across the room, embedding with a nasty crack and a wet spritz of blood all over the neat tapestry you work on.

You’re momentarily shocked in place, not forgetting that Hvitserk was there as he launches himself over the table, darting out toward the offending group of Vikings with the sword kept religiously at his hip. A group of unprepared older men leave no real challenge for Hvitserk, crunching his blade into the stomach of one after another, after another. Disgusting fleshy pops burst through the room as you watch behind a tapestry. Unable to look but in the same breath, unable to look away as the viscous blood coats the heavy tables.

When you finally do escape from behind the tapestry, it’s to a repetitive hack! Hack! Hack! Hvitserk bursts through the men’s throats, separating head from body in each person. Then abruptly he spins around, dropping his splattered sword with a clatter. You take a warring step back.

“Hvitserk I didn–” Before you can finish, his lips cup over your own with a bruising eagerness. Hvitserk thrusts his arm behind your shoulders, pulling you in tight. He tastes of irony blood, the sweat he shed in his assault and liquified lust that boils over. Hvitserk drops down, thrusting your skirts over your ass, then higher to strip you of the dress in front of the thralls that rush to clean up the bloody corpses.

“My husband–” You try to intervene on whatever thought that Hvitserk was having. A million like you maybe? What happened just now? With these foreign men so intent on claiming a piece of you that they would take their chances on talking to their Queen in such a way?

Hvitserk shoves you back onto a wooden table, cracking your head when you realize that Hvitserk’s normally playful eyes are limpidly dark, catching your wrists above your head. “They thought they would claim you.” He finally presses his fingers against your clit, fingers pressing down hard against your clit in an unprepared action that has your legs knocking tightly together. You squeal softly as he immediately begins to pleasure your body, smacking your moistening entrance with a blood hand.

Then Hvitserk loosens his pants, fisting his cock to press his tip against your hole. With a small barking shout, he presses in hard and deep. The pace is brutally quick, replacing his hand on your hips to drag you onto his cock like a doll. He uses you like one of his thralls, fucking himself deep with every thrust. You gasp under him for some air but none comes to you with him pounding you so richly that even the heavy table was quaking.

“Hvitserk, Hvitserk calm down.” You tug at his hands.

“They thought they would take you from me!” He shouts loud enough that the walls are nearly weeping out. You could have too, if not for your shock in his words. He had been gone. He can tell that’s what you were thinking.

You thought he no longer loved you.


	47. One Day

She’s a witch! His brother had said it as if their mother had not been the same. When Hvitserk went to Kattegat, it was always with the knowledge that he was outside of their strange circle… despite being so in at the same time. The only thing keeping his brother at bay, or so Hvitserk thought, was her. 

It was cold-- wet and frosty as he hops from one congealed mat of ice to another, hoping back onto the man made road towards the slight hill where slushed ice would crack under his foot. He taps his boots of the ice as he pushes the door apart, sliding in with a small little peep. A garland of weasel bones jingle to welcome him back home, etched with rune.

“Fadir!” Shrills his nearly three year old, whizzing through the dark planks of his home to the doorway. Hvitserk grins a bright, gleaming smile as he closes the door behind him. It smells of warm hearth. Old ash lit alife and boy, there are no bowls on the shelf. That meant one thing to Hvitserk who sheds his fur coat and plucks up his son: dinner. 

“(Y/N)!” He beams, rocking his son in his arms. 

You turn away from the warm hearth in the room, pouring him a hearty and warm soup of rökt fisk to go with his herb bread. You turn up with your bowl, revealing a round belly that picks up his skirt. He moves forward to meet you in a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“There is my pretty witch.” He teases, running his hand over the curve of your stomach, taking the bowl you hand to him. He almost moves away when you stop him by tapping your lips with a ‘ah, ah, ah’ as if to note that he can’t leave before his kisses. His pre-existing gloomy mood is done away with in that instant, leaning in with a great smile to kiss you upon the lips. Then he moves to his seat with his little boy in his arms. 

“Mhm. Why do you come in here with that frown?” You say, bringing your own bowl on top of your round belly. The chair you sit in is carved with imagery of the falcon-- melted gold paints its surface in memory of the goddess you serve. 

“Ivar murdered Margrethe on his way to find Bjorn.” He notes. Old feelings died hard-- you suppose, but you are far more confident in your abilities to keep your husband than worries of the one who played mad. Hvitserk bobs his son on his lap, offering him some of his smoked fish soup.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Are you grieving?” You ask. 

He mushes his thin lips together, shrugging his shoulders. “A little. Ivar thinks I am overreacting and have gone soft.” 

“Ivar is just as guilty of being soft as you, little fadir.” You reach over, tickling his belly. Your young son babbles for more of his father’s food. 

“Hey, I’ve hardly gotten any.” He pouts to him, cleaning the spoon. His son steals his bread, devouring it as hungrily as Hvitserk ever had. Your husband turns his eyes to you. 

“He says I’ve gotten comfortable having a seidhkona at home.” Hvitserk notes. Such strange magic you practiced. Magic that even the gods were wary of. Harmful and yet protective, all in one. Your kohl lined eyes glisten while you raise your eyebrows up. 

“Should I write ale-runes on his horn?” You tease. 

Hvitserk laughs, leaning up in his chair. “No, Freydis is with child. They will call you a Spakona, not my pretty little witch who bares me sons, makes bread and cares for me at night in spirit or person.” He rolls his eyes as if he can’t understand how his brother managed it. The two did not speak. But more than that his impotence was exactly what led to the death of Sigurd-- which you foresaw with Aslaug. A death.

“Oh, then its too late for that.” You note rather dead pan in tone. Its enough that he stops to look at you quizzically. You return his gaze with a dead serious one, not at all revealing anything more. He opens his mouth but then closes it. He stares off again. 

“He doesn’t think I love him. What if I…” He begins. Just as quickly you cut him off. 

“Let the fool play the fool, Hvitserk. He will humiliate you.” 

Nothing else passes his lips, bringing his bowl of soup up to his lips to chug the fishy broth all at once. He hops up, setting down his heavy son who whizzes about his feet as he goes to serve himself more. You stand up, gliding over to where he kneels. 

“Let me do that.” You huff something about womanly duties-- and Hvitserk swats your skirts back to sit down. 

“I have hands too!” He pouts cutely bringing his son another bowl of fishy soup along with him. He plops down on the ground to eat with him, resting his head against your side. 

“But you’re my king.” You turn your hands over his neat braids. Hvitserk can’t help a smile at the suggestion. 

“With no lands in all of Norway.” He notes. Even the land he was given was bought off of his smaller brother’s hands. You hush the strain in the wrinkles of his forehead by a consoling rub of your thumb against the wound smack in the middle of his forehead. 

“Be patient my love. Your line will have your glory.” You console. So he smiles, edging closer towards your belly. He lays a kiss atop of the round swell of his son brewing in his little witch’s belly.

“One day.”


	48. Too Much Milkies

You felt awful.

Everything was hot; your head felt heavy and beating with an uncomfortable pain that had lasted days on end. That wasn’t the worst of it. The hot fever burning through your skin could have been easily worse. Lucky for you, Hvitserk had been sure to pick up the slack with something even worse.

A damn wet nurse. One that took your sweet little Ragnvi who was breastfed elsewhere while you sat in your bed with your thick furs kicked off. The thin sheer cloth of your dress scratchy between your legs and more importantly, your breasts. Breasts that couldn’t be any more swollen than they were at that moment. You had tried to shrug it off, keep going like any woman could. But no, here you were, in bed while Hvitserk stood by another thrall, thiefing pieces of bread that he had tried his best to make with her.

“Are you hungry?” Hvitserk took up the plate set by his thrall. She had done nearly all the work but hey, he kneaded that bread!

“No.” You groan, turning on your side.

“Princesss…” He keens, setting the plate on your plump hips.

“I want my baby.” You grumble as the only response. Oh he knew why you were so pouty. He hadn’t let you breastfeed Ragnvi all day and your breasts were lacking for it.

“What if she gets sick?” Hvitserk pulls at your shoulder, rolling you back flatly. Your lips purse into a curt frown, raising your eyebrows upon your forehead in the way that he knew meant trouble.

“How am I to sleep when my breasts are like this?” You say.

“Like what?” He suggests when his eyes glide down to your breasts. Wet stains– smelling of your wasted milk blotch your dress.

“Oh. Like that.” Hvitserk clears his throat before drifting down your top. Gently so, he glides your breast from the constricting sheer dress. You glance up to your thrall, sweeping with the baby asleep. Hvitserk glides his mouth along your nipple, easing his tongue carefully against the leaking nipple. Milk flows steadily into his mouth, harsh gulps from Hvitserk with every passing moment loosening the swell of your breast.

Your hand rests atop of his braids in soft pets– the grouchy frown of your lips losing its hold on your features with sleep taking ahold. You’re sure you’re spilling milk onto Hvitserk’s other hand that massages the other breast but if he doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t, you won’t. He repeats the treatment to the otherside before drifting back, laying small kisses on your softened breasts up across your neck to your lips.

“You smell like milk.” You scrunch up your nose.

Hvitserk leans forward, sliding his lips against yours with a sweet kiss. “Do I taste like it too?” He mumbles, easing his tongue against yours. Your soft, pleased moan spills through his mouth, parting the kiss only to push a soft piece of bread against his mouth.

“Have some bread to soak up the milk, daddie.” You reach down to pat his softened stomach.

“Hey…”


End file.
